


French Knot

by Nagaem_C



Series: Needles and Pins [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Little Bit of BAMF, Asexual Sherlock, F/M, Family, Holidays, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Moving In Together, POV Alternating, Relationship Negotiation, Reunions, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and Anna are engaged to be wed; the months leading up to the big day are full of high emotion and hard work. John and Sherlock, in the meantime, are enjoying a well-deserved period of happy stability in their unique relationship—or at least they appear to be. But when unexpected backlash from a closed case threatens to endanger both the wedding and their lives, all four of them will need to work together to navigate a minefield of promises, secrets and half-truths that could leave them all changed on the other side...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. GREG: Done Is Done

**Author's Note:**

> The story begins about two months after the last chapter of [The Ravelled Edges](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1609331/chapters/3426386). Chapters will alternate POV through the four main characters, in a fairly unpredictable pattern (though it's a logical one, and everyone will have equal time).

  
**1\. GREG: Done Is Done**  
_22 October 2015_

.

 

Greg sighed and frowned at the file he was trying to study, trying to rub the growing ache from his forehead with the fingers of his free hand. Unfortunately, a fresh wave of sharp words from the opposite end of the conference room made it clear that his efforts weren't likely to succeed. Sally Donovan and Phil Anderson had gone five rounds already on the trace evidence that had been pulled from the counterfeit bills, and they didn't show signs of coming to an amicable agreement anytime soon.

"I'm telling you, those results of yours can't possibly be right," Sally was stubbornly repeating. "I'm inclined to believe Holmes on this one. The theory _you've_ cooked up doesn't make a lick of sense!"

"It would, if you just listen to my reasoning! You keep on interrupting! And where is Sherlock, anyway?"

"Last I heard, he was in the lab. At Barts."

"I have a lab, _too_ ," Phil whined. "I don't see why he can't just run his unnecessary, duplicate tests here. At the _least_ it would make the chain-of-evidence paperwork cleaner!" He turned his head in Greg's direction, obviously angling for a nod of support from higher up, but Greg flipped a page and pretended he wasn't listening.

Sally snorted derisively. "Might have something to do with the times you threatened to have him arrested for tampering with your equipment..."

"I was in the right, there! You even said so, Sally!" He crossed his arms and sank into a mean slouch. "But, _still_."

When Greg's phone began to ring, it was a relief. He stood, replacing the useless file with its brethren on the table, and escaped to the hallway before answering.

"John," he sighed. "Tell me you've got something? I should have eaten supper hours ago."

"Not quite yet, I'm afraid," John's voice crackled and popped on the other end of the line. "Sherlock's still—"

"Still what? John? John?" Greg frowned down at his mobile, and after a beat of silence it rang again.

"Sorry," said John. "It's this phone. It keeps cutting . . . me, ever since . . . of a minor chemical spill Sunday. Haven't . . . chance to take it in, yet."

"Ri-ight. Where are you?"

"On my . . . back to Barts. Sher . . . me run out to get—"

"John, are you still there? Hello? God." Greg made it most of the way back to his office before the phone rang a third time, and when it connected he spoke quickly. "Look, how about I just meet you at the lab?"

"Sure. Sorry, Greg . . . have results for you soon."

Shaking his head, Greg unlocked his office just long enough to retrieve his coat and shut off the lights. On his way back out, he passed the cubicle where DS Patel was busy at his computer.

"Off out?" Ronny asked him, raising his head and tossing the longest bit of his glossy black hair from his face. "Have we pinned down the source of the cash, then?"

"Not yet, but we've gotta be close now. I'm running over to Barts; let the bickering children know, and keep an eye on 'em, would you?"

"Sure thing, sir." His dark eyes flashed with mirth; he was the youngest on their team by nearly five years, as well as least senior. "Any orders you want me to pass along?"

"Nah, they already know what they should be working on. If they're not at each other's throats, anyway. I'll be in touch."

 

.

 

Greg wasn't feeling all that alert—it had been a long and frustrating day—so he decided to forego the use of a fleet car and hop on the Tube instead. Cabs were all well and good, but something about riding the trains always seemed to comfort him, especially in the slightly less hectic hours of the evening. It was like connecting with a slice of the living, breathing city, coexisting briefly with widely diverse strangers who generally shared a common sense of quiet courtesy. Every time he emerged from an Underground station, bustling along in a crowd, Greg relished the sense of peace he'd gained; it was a small thing, but the air tasted just a little sweeter.

He was still hungry, and tired, but when he entered St Bartholomew's he had a spring in his step. Before he even reached the lifts, he recognised John's figure up ahead of him. The doctor was walking slowly with his sandy head bent low over his phone, and a few thick books tucked under one arm.

"Hey, John, wait up," Greg called, sidestepping a few oncoming nurses and orderlies and half-jogging to overtake him.

John looked up with raised eyebrows. "Hi. Why'd you text me asking for a progress report, when you were already on your way over here?"

"What?" Tapping the lift call button, Greg peered down at the received message his friend was showing him. "No, I sent you that ages ago. You just got that? I thought you were calling me, before, to respond to it!"

John glared at his damaged device. "Bloody junk. First thing tomorrow, I swear, I'm getting it replaced."

They rode down to the quiet hall adjacent to the morgue, tracing familiar steps to Sherlock's favourite lab in companionable silence. Greg glanced aside through the small window of the morgue office's door as they passed, on the off chance he might see Molly. Her schedule tended to be erratic, but tonight her thickset colleague's blond head was bent over the intake desk. Greg smothered the tiny flash of disappointment, instead hoping she was enjoying a pleasant night off. Perhaps she and Simon were on a date.

 _It'd be nice to have a date,_ he caught himself thinking, and rolled his eyes a little at his wistfulness. It had been just over two months since his fiancée had returned to the States, and it would be nearly two months more before she came back to London. Greg wasn't experiencing the desperate, uncertain longing he'd suffered the last time they'd been apart this long—having a clear, set date to look forward to and a ring on her finger helped immensely—but he couldn't deny that he was lonely without Anna.

John pushed through the lab door, saying, "I've brought your books, and your DI. Any luck?"

But the room was empty.

"Where's he gone?" Greg wondered aloud, while John simply huffed an annoyed breath through his nose and stepped over to drop the books beside the abandoned microscope.

"God only _knows_ what that impatient prat's got up to." John tapped out a quick text message while shuffling through the various papers and notes left near the workstation.

"Could be nothing. Could be he's in the loo."

"No, look! Here it _is_ , see? I knew it! He narrowed down the particulate origin while I was gone, after all, and didn't fucking bother waiting for me. Here's the address, right here!"

Greg accepted the slip of paper being brandished before his face. "Okay, calm down. It's no problem. We know where he's gone; he can't have left all that long ago..."

"Calm _down_? You know as well as I do the sort of shit Sherlock gets himself into when he goes off looking for bloody trouble on his own! Does Jeff Hope ring a damn bell?"

Pursing his lips, Greg nodded. "All right, _fine_. Let's go get a cab right now and see if we can't catch up."

 

.

 

On the ride across town, Greg did his best to calm his friend's temper, but John was in no mood to be soothed. Despite Greg's efforts, John was still actively seething when their cab pulled up to the darkened and downtrodden Southfields commercial strip indicated on Sherlock's hastily scrawled note.

"We've been over this, I don't even know how many times. It's like he has the impulse control of a three-year-old," John groused as he pulled out cash for the fare.

The mention of children suddenly brought to mind the joke Greg had shared with Ronny earlier, and he realised he hadn't thought to check in before leaving Barts. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket—then the pockets of his coat—then, frowning deeply, he patted down his trousers before starting all over again and hoping for a different result.

"Damn," he breathed, looking down the road in the direction the cab had driven. Had he dropped it in the seat? Thinking back, he seemed to recall having been jostled on his way off the Tube, as well... "I've lost my sodding phone," he told John.

"Mm. That's too bad," John muttered absently, standing on tiptoes and cupping his hands to peer through a dark window.

"You're damn right it is," Greg hissed. He stepped up close behind the shorter man, instinctively blocking easy view of John's suspicious-looking movements. "Are you sure Sherlock's here? Doesn't look like _anyone_ is. What are you hoping to accomplish with this, exactly?" Glancing around the shadows of the sleeping street, Greg suddenly felt exposed and out of his depth. He may have a warrant card in his wallet, but if he and John were caught out alone snooping around without a good reason, it might not do him very much good.

John grunted. "He's here. This is the place, I can feel it. C'mon, there's surely a way around back." Off he went around the corner, slinking quickly into the gloom with the grim determination of a soldier, and after a second's nervous hesitation Greg hurried along after him.

Between this building and the next behind it, there was even less light; only two wall fixtures were in working order along the entire alleyway. A tall pile of discarded shipping pallets hulked threateningly at one wall, and a little further down a large and battered-looking skip blocked the sight line to one of the closed shops' rear doors.

The quiet here felt oppressive, and Greg couldn't help but lower his voice to a whisper. "John. I'm not loving this."

John didn't respond directly to him; instead he began to muse aloud in a hushed and angry voice, pacing down the centre of the alley with his friend close at his heels. "He's got to have come this way. I just have to think like _him_ , right? Okay. So I'm Sherlock. I'm a ridiculous, overconfident _git_ who loves nothing more than to break into locked buildings and risk my neck while my faithful partner stays shut outside..."

"Clearly, you've got some resentment over past events to work through, here. But—"

"I've used my brilliant bloody head to figure out where those faked Euros were picked up, and what better way to follow that up than to go on in alone and search out the proof? Especially if there's any chance at all someone's waiting to _break_ my bloody head while I'm at it!" John stepped up to one of the doors and tested it, to no avail.

Greg didn't have much to dispute John's tirade. He'd witnessed similar behaviour from his wayward consultant numerous times, over the years, and it had certainly made him feel angry and protective. Still, none of that quite measured up to the possessive fury of John as a boyfriend, apparently.

Before he could say anything more to try and pacify John, they heard a noise, the metallic squeal of a door being opened, perhaps a few metres farther on.

John perked up. " _There_ he is," he growled softly, and drew breath to call out for Sherlock—the hair on the back of Greg's neck prickled and he reached forward to lay a warning hand on John's shoulder.

At that, thankfully, John seemed to regain his common sense somewhat. Blinking up at Greg's worried expression, he allowed Greg to pull them backwards a pace towards the nearest wall.

It wasn't Sherlock; or, if it was, he'd made some new friends. Big ones, judging by the size of the shadows they could see moving on the ground. The figures themselves were blocked, for the moment, by the bulk of the skip.

John tensed under Greg's hand, and a split second later the sound of his phone's text alert trilled. It seemed loud as a scream, echoing in the closely walled space. Wincing, John pulled it from his pocket and looked down; standing so near, Greg could see the message as John read it:

**Meeting OF, will return to Barts in 45 min. I traced the particulate source but it's too risky to investigate on our own. Wait at the lab for me, please -SH**

Greg got the sense that John was stunned—as for himself, he felt like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach—but there was no time to share a reaction over it. In the seconds that followed, their attention was necessarily focused on more pressing matters.

Four men—no, five. Two of them were big, meaty fighters, two of them quick and vicious, and the last one wielded a pipe or something that he swung in the half-dark. They came on fast, with wordless yells; they wasted no time on taunts or questions, but simply attacked the violators of their territory.

Greg cursed and stepped aside automatically, giving himself and John each room to move with the nearest wall angled a pace behind their backs. John dropped low and sprang in to clock the lead attacker with a surprisingly speedy uppercut—Greg managed to get in a solid punch or three, weaving and spinning to dodge the blows aimed at his face—for a handful of moments they each gave as good as they got, outnumbered and unprepared as they were. But then John took the swinging pipe to one arm before being thrown bodily into the pallets, and one of the big blokes grabbed Greg around the neck and held him in place for four punishing blows to the gut, and John's second cry of pain was unmistakable but Greg couldn't see him anymore, and when Greg landed hard on his knees, gasping, something came down forcefully on the back of his head—

 

.

 

Eventually, Greg became aware of pain.

The sensation was inconsistent, radiating in waves between head, shoulder and stomach, fading in and out along with strange voices and a loudly puttering engine. He registered motion, next: a bump and sway, vibration, cold metal against his face. The smell of petrol was intense and sickening. Greg coughed and tried to turn his mouth away from the floor; spittle smeared his cheek and he whimpered at the sharp ache in his shoulder.

"Shut it, you," a rough voice spoke from somewhere above him—and then he was stepped on, the bad shoulder grinding down into the vehicle's floor under a heavy boot until stars exploded behind his eyes and he was out again.

 

.

 

The second time Greg dragged himself back to consciousness, there was no movement, and no sound. Eyes closed, he took tentative stock of his situation: _Upright, against a wall. Cold. No shoes, no coat or jacket. My hands, cuffed? No, tied—shoulder's fucked, Christ..._

He coughed a little, and again it provoked a tiny, hoarse groan; an answering noise drew his eyes open, and he squinted into the darkness. There was a thin line of light somewhere off to his right, but he couldn't make out much of his surroundings.

"Greg?"

"John," he rasped. "Thank _God._ Are you okay?"

John's voice was thick and congested. "Had better days. Had worse, too." There was a strange, soft utterance that Greg interpreted as a rueful chuckle.

"Any idea where we are?"

"A cellar?" John guessed. "Can't say much more, from here."

"I can't even see you from here. Where are you?" The string of words was enough to set off another painful cough. Everything from his ribs to his hips was an indistinct mass of hurt.

"I think I can get closer to you," grunted John. "Only my hands are tied— _ahh, piss_ —"

"John?"

"It's my arm," he panted. "I'm—okay. I'm fine." Soon his figure lurched into view; he staggered over and awkwardly used one shoulder against the wall to lever himself down beside Greg.

Greg let him have a moment to breathe heavily through his mouth, slowly clearing obvious pain from his features. What he could see of John's face was streaked with darkness; his nose had been bleeding, and possibly something on his scalp too.

"All right," Greg said softly. Now that they were close, they didn't have to strain to whisper across the room. "Broken, you think?"

"No. Wrong sort of pain. Don't think my nose is, either. The rest all feels like simple contusions. You?"

"Left shoulder hurts like hell. Dislocated, probably. They coshed me over the head at least once, and my guts feel a bit scrambled."

John twisted his head around and squinted at him. "Your breathing sounds okay from here. Any trouble?"

"Not so far. Just a little wheezy."

"What about your gut, then? I don't see any stain on your shirt; do you feel any wetness? Is it a sharp or dull pain? Where's the worst of it?"

Greg smirked a little at the sudden onslaught of doctorly questioning. "I've had worse, don't think I'm bleeding, pretty much dull all over, and none of it holds a damn candle to my shoulder."

"Good." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Greg."

"Yeah, all right."

"No, really. If I hadn't been—"

"John. Just leave it." Greg hadn't meant to sound so gruff; he swallowed and tried again, more gently. "What's done is done."

John turned to face forward, and they sat for a few minutes in silence, taking stock of their dismal situation.

 

\-----

 


	2. JOHN: From a Dark Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg are holding out hope for help to arrive...but until then, they must do what they can to make the best of a very bad situation.

  
**2\. JOHN: From a Dark Place**  
_22-23 October 2015_

.

 

It wasn't looking good, that was certain.

John was trying to keep a level head about things, but his emotions kept running away with him. Every rational assessment of their situation morphed halfway through into nauseated self-blame.

_My phone was dropped in the fight, and Greg's wasn't on him, so—why, why didn't I listen when Greg told me?_

_They've taken our outerwear and shoes, probably to keep us docile, it's cold enough in here we'll be feeling it before long—and what was I even thinking, barging ahead like that?_

_Surely that fight left all sorts of clues. When Sherlock eventually comes looking...oh, God, Sherlock!_

Breaking the pensive hush, Greg began, "Well, then—"

John interrupted before he could get any further. "He said _please_."

"What?"

"In the message. I was so angry—God, I don't even know why I was so angry—and here he'd gone and done the safe thing, and asked me to wait for him...and he said _please_..."

"So you made a few assumptions. Got caught up in things. We've all been there," Greg told him.

It was meant to be a comfort, but hearing it _here_ was so inappropriate it seemed surreal. John laughed, choking a little on the thick blood still draining down his throat.

His friend leaned over very slightly, brushing his uninjured right arm against John's uninjured left; that small comfort didn't seem as ridiculous as receiving relationship advice while captive, and he let it stand without comment.

"Quiet out there," Greg murmured next.

"Uh-huh."

"Bet they're gone. Maybe they won't come back."

"What, you think they just dumped us somewhere and went on?"

"Dunno. It's likely as anything else, innit? They've got our wallets. Assuming they've looked, they know I'm a copper."

John considered that gravely, staring across at the static line of light at the entrance to the little cellar room. Might knowing they had a police detective on their hands change their treatment of him?

Surely these men—presumably the counterfeiters they'd been after—wouldn't simply leave them where they were. The fight had knocked both him and Greg out, but neither of them had been injured all that horribly; left to their own devices, maybe they could eventually get free? Draw attention?

Something?

The vague possibilities of escape seemed hazy, indistinct. John jerked his drooping head upright with a start. "Don't fall asleep," he muttered, an admonishment to his companion as well as himself.

"Right. Right," Greg mumbled in reply, his voice starting off a bit fuzzy as well. "Wouldn't want 'em coming back and catching us napping, would we?"

"Not if there's anything else to be done." John concentrated on beginning to sort through the mess of concerns crowding his head, trying to determine the topics they needed to cover most urgently. They might have limited time on their own, after all.

Greg asked the first question. "Who's 'O. F.'?"

"Huh? Oh. That'd be Old Floyd. Some kind of authority figure in the local homeless community, I gather. I've never met him, myself, but Sherlock meets up with him now and again. It's one of the ways he always knows what's going on."

"He often run off to see this guy during a case?"

"Not often. If there's something he needs watched, where just one or two helpers won't do...or, if he needs to gather word of mouth from all over the city, fast..."

"Somehow I feel like I'm better off not knowing much more."

John shrugged on his good side. As he did, he realised that his friend had begun moving beside him, pulling away to wriggle back and forth.

"Greg?"

"...Yeah?" Greg responded, grunting a little with the strain the movement was putting on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Even as he asked, he knew the answer. Greg was testing his bonds, something John hadn't quite worked himself up to in the handful of minutes since he'd jolted himself by shifting across the room. "That's got to be hurting you?"

" _Psh_. Yeah, so what?"

"So, why?"

"You know why. We need to get untied, if we're to do anything else. Besides, _you_ may be in less pain sitting still, but with my shoulder how it is, I'm hurting myself as much if not more sitting back on my damn hands!"

John had to give him credit for taking the initiative. It was frustrating and a little unnerving that his aching head was still so muddled, leading him to ask such slow-witted sorts of questions; he appreciated that Greg, at least, seemed to retain most of his focus. Watching the man's slow struggle with a frown, he offered, "If we turn back to back, maybe I can help with it. But it's likely to hurt you more while I'm trying..."

"I can handle the pain, John." Without hesitation, he was already shifting and turning, willingly presenting his bound wrists.

"Sure about that?"

"Did I ever tell you about the time I broke my leg playing footy?"

"You mentioned it once," John hummed, clumsily shuffling himself around. "You were seventeen or so, right?"

"Well, did I _happen_ to mention that I walked all the way home—five kilometres across Bristol—and then sat through a family dinner, afterwards, before Mum and Pop realised I was seriously hurt?"

"Jesus, Greg. Fine. Here goes nothing, then."

 

.

 

Quite some time later, after a prolonged, frustrating struggle, John managed to loosen the knotted nylon rope around Greg's wrists. As the DI pulled his left arm around to the front of his body at last, his involuntary noise was sharp and strangled, but still fairly quiet.

"Thank bloody Christ," he wheezed. "Not that this is all that much better."

"Well, get me untied and I can help you out," John replied, leaning forward to allow his friend easier access to the tied hands at his back.

Even working with one mostly useless arm, Greg was able to make far quicker work of John's knots with the advantage of facing them: perhaps only twenty or thirty minutes elapsed while he cursed and picked at the rope. Rubbing gratefully at chafed wrists, John glanced at his watch—half past two in the morning; they'd left the lab at Barts over five hours earlier.

"Okay," he sighed, getting up on his knees and turning to approach his friend, "sit up straight, facing away from me. Ever had this done before?"

"I've seen it done. Never had the honour, myself," Greg quipped, somewhat grimly.

John gently put his hands in place and waited for Greg to settle himself; the little he could see of the older man's profile turned toward the still-silent door to the next room, assessing. After a moment Greg faced forward once more, deliberately raising his right forearm to his mouth, and then nodded his readiness.

"Here we go, mate. On three; one—two—"

Even muffled into Greg's wrist, his short scream of agony was loud enough to echo in the still cellar. It entirely drowned out John's simultaneous groan, at utilising the abused and swollen muscles of his own arm.

 _Not broken, fuck-it-hurts, but it's not broken,_ John reminded himself, panting as he backed off to lean against the wall, sitting on his heels.

They breathed together through their respective hurts, until Greg shook himself and moved to stand. "Thanks, John. Next order of business," he muttered hoarsely. "Checking the room."

 

.

 

Standing together, they performed a slow circuit of the space. It was perhaps inefficient, but staying in close proximity allowed them to keep up a steady stream of quiet commentary. Though Greg still clearly seemed the more alert of their pair in terms of his speech patterns, he stumbled a little as they went along, and tended to use the walls to supplement his balance. John watched his shadowy form worriedly.

They appeared to be in a small storage cellar, or perhaps a large janitor's closet. Water pipes ran in brackets high along one of the rough stone walls, and a round drain grate was set into the floor, its small island of poured concrete surrounded by uneven flagstone; there were, unfortunately, no easy weapons to hand. A careful search of the metal shelving unit bolted to the rear wall turned up only cardboard boxes filled with paper leaflets. They also found a lightweight plastic bucket, which Greg joked halfheartedly about needing to use later.

Most interesting, of course, was the source of their prison's scant light. The vertical line they'd seen from their seated positions marked a slight gap between the misaligned door and its frame on the hinge side, and they found that it was wide enough to peer through at a point somewhat above waist height. They took turns crouching awkwardly to squint into the light, before Greg fetched the bucket and flipped it over for a makeshift stool.

Visible through the crack was a sliver of a windowless room, in what appeared to be the lower level of a very old building. The walls had been given a plaster treatment, but the dark stone behind it was still visible near the low ceiling. Something in the homely lack of décor, and the scattering of folding chairs and banquet tables, gave John the distinct impression of a community centre or rarely used meeting hall. The modernisation efforts—at least in the basement—seemed to have been limited to a brief effort in the seventies or eighties, judging by the style of the hanging light fixtures. Long fluorescent bulbs flickered almost imperceptibly above severely yellowed plastic panels, lending a sallow, unhealthy tint to the deserted space.

 _I suppose we should be thankful those bastards left the lights on at all, before ditching us for hours_ , John thought, glancing over.

Greg's face in the dim light lacked the crusted smears of blood John knew were gracing his own, but it appeared craggy with exhaustion and pain nonetheless. He had been entirely content to let John take "first watch," as it were, seating himself on the cold floor beside the door.

"Penny for your thoughts," said John, realising they'd fallen silent again.

"This is gonna sound stupid, but I'm worrying about Anna." Greg lifted a hand and wiped it across his eyes. "Today's Thursday, she'll have been out with Chaz Garvey all evening; sometimes she texts me, or calls, so I know she got back in all right..."

"Mm. Well, if that's what it takes to take your mind off— _hold on_ —" He stiffened at the sound of approaching voices, offering amorphous thanks to any available deities that the group hadn't returned while he and Greg had been making noise.

With the return of the gang came the vaguely greasy smell of hot food. One of the three who entered carried bulging paper bags from McDonalds; he pulled out a chair and began to distribute his fellows' meals, and John's stomach growled at the sight. The two larger men sat by one wall to eat together, conversing too quietly to be understood, while the other chose a different table, slinging a weighty duffel up beside him and rummaging through it while he ate.

The relative peace was soon broken by a new sound, one to which the three men seemed to be studiously avoiding giving their attention: yelling from a hallway outside the meeting room.

_«Pourquoi ne pas confier à moi? Je suis ta seule famille, je mérite d'être impliqués!»_

_«Tu peut être mon frère, Édouard, mais tu n'as pas l'honneur d'un crapaud! Tu ne mérites pas un peu plus que je t'ai donné déjà!»_

John had no real talent with language. He remembered a bit of Pashto and a few fragments of German from his RAMC days, but otherwise he was hopeless. Turning to Greg, he whispered, "They're fighting in French. I can't get a word of it."

"Here, let me listen."

They stood and switched places; Greg peeked through the crack briefly, then put his ear to it instead.

"This is rough. Regional dialect, strange slang; I can't get very much," Greg told him softly. "Sounds like...one's saying he doesn't trust the other...the other is telling him to go screw himself..."

"Charming," muttered John.

"Something about the _buffoons_ —oh, the crew there? Stupid for taking you and me."

"I agree."

Greg's eyebrows rose as the argument reached its apparent peak. "Well, those are some interesting obscenities...Now the first one's done. Dunno if he left, or if he's just shut up." A door slammed, and he looked in again. "Five in the room, now. The light-haired one who hit you with the pipe, and an older bloke we haven't seen."

After another minute, he reported, "He's sending Blondy and the skinny guy out. Now he's making a phone call..."

John couldn't really hear any of this quieter action from where he was. As his friend concentrated intently on listening, he got to his feet and began to pace back and forth, trying to stay limber and push back the fog of fatigue that threatened to overtake him. At the far end of his fifth circuit, he turned just in time to see Greg shifting his seated position to look through the opening again.

The older man's balance faltered; John experienced the moment as if in slow motion. The hollow squawk of the bucket scraping against the floor was shockingly loud.

"Fuck, _fuck_ ," Greg hissed, staggering backwards away from the door, and tripping over the bucket with another dreadful clatter; John rushed to his side to steady him as the door was unlocked and thrown open.

 

.

 

_«Regardez-vous deux! Fous pathétiques, demandant plus la peine!»_

John squinted in the bright light of the plain room, glaring up at the sneering face of the blond man who'd nearly broken his arm. "Sorry, mate," he grunted, "I'm just not following..."

The big goon behind him tightened his hold, and he choked off a yelp of pain.

Blondy spat another incomprehensible taunt into his face, this time reaching out without warning and twisting John's aching nose roughly between thumb and forefinger.

Greg growled low in his throat. "Lay off him!"

"Shaddap, _copper_ ," rumbled the second brawny thug, giving Greg a shake. Seen in the light, the pair of men restraining them appeared similar enough to be related, and were the only ones so far who they’d heard speaking any English. The fourth man in the room—the skinny one who'd had the duffel bag—hadn't yet uttered a word, though he glared almost continually at John while rubbing a hand along his clearly swollen jaw.

The blond laughed and turned his attentions to Greg, meeting the man's defiant glare with vicious amusement. He spoke again, and this time John heard a definite air of menace in whatever he was threatening—he drawled the unmistakable word _détective_ in a way that sent a shiver down John's spine.

The door from the hall opened once more, and the counterfeiters' apparent leader stalked in. He was jowly and heavy-set, perhaps a few years older than Greg, with lacklustre grey hair that flopped down over his forehead. Another man followed after him, closing the door as he came. John recognised this man as the fifth participant from the fight; he sported a black eye that must have come to him courtesy of Lestrade, because John didn't remember putting it there.

The leader gestured at the two of them, and snapped out a short command; Blondy answered in a clear affirmative, but before stepping back he delivered a swift punch to the DI's stomach.

"Fu- _uuuck_ ," Greg groaned, hitching forward and gasping painfully.

Before he could catch his breath and straighten, the leader had begun to speak, a harsh stream of rapid-fire interrogatory French that John found completely unintelligible. The emotional gist of the angry accusation was clear, but the specific meaning was beyond him; it seemed to John that most of the focus had been on his friend so far, and it wasn't until he noticed the tall man flipping through their confiscated wallets at the back of the room that he understood.

 _Lestrade is a French surname. They have plenty of reason to suspect he knows the language._ The thought drew John to glance over at Greg's blank face, realising with some surprise that his companion had shown no overt signs of comprehension in the minutes since they'd been pulled from the storage room.

The older man struck Greg with an open hand, hard enough to snap his head to the side. His next words were spoken slowly, and enunciated clearly, inches away from Greg's face; the only interpretation John could guess at was _you'll regret this._

In response, Greg screwed up his expression into a worried grimace. "Uhh...parley-vous, um, English?"

John had _heard_ his friend speak of childhood holidays in France. On at least two occasions, Greg's fourth or fifth shot of scotch had gone down following fluently spoken toasts. John had no problem believing that following the fast words of these men was a tall order—repeating phrases learnt from family was one thing, full fluency quite another, and Greg had already confessed to difficulty besides—but he _knew_ this was an outright sham.

 _I hope he knows what he's doing,_ prayed John, feeling a cold weight in his stomach as he chimed in. "I swear to God, we don't understand a word you're saying!" At least he wasn't lying, in regards to himself.

The man squinted menacingly at each of them for long moments before making a rude, dismissive noise. Stepping back, he gestured at the ugly blond, who broke into a cruel grin and pulled a switchblade from the pocket of his jeans.

Blondy chuckled, saying something to the man behind Greg that made his stance shift and his grip tighten. Then, flicking the knife open with a _snick_ that echoed in the suddenly silent room, he moved forward and placed its tip over Greg's breastbone, dragging it slowly down the front of his shirt.

Greg's eyes flicked across to John's; the angry bravado had drained from his gaze, and now all John could see was a sick, fearful certainty. _I tried,_ it said.

Horrified, John watched the blade pause and begin to press gently inward near the centre of his friend's belly; he steeled himself for a last-ditch struggle, to try and lunge forward and stop the man—and just then a riot of noise erupted in the outer hall. He was pulled roughly around with a cry, as everyone in the room reacted with confusion. The door burst inwards; black-vested policemen pushed through with weapons drawn. From the corner of his eye, John saw the quiet one rushing forward with something— _a gun_ —he yelled "Down, Greg!" and wrenched himself out of his captor's loosened arms, diving towards the floor as shots rang out on both sides.

 

.

 

The firefight was over within three seconds; in the ringing aftermath, John looked up to see familiar figures shoving through behind the small crowd of response officers.

"Sherlock," he breathed, as the man dropped to his knees and leaned over him.

"John, for God's sake..." Ashen and wide-eyed, Sherlock placed shaking hands on John's cheeks, curling forward and touching their foreheads together before pulling away again. "You're _hurt_. Can you stand?"

"Can, but help would be nice. Careful of my arm—ah!—" His bitten-off exclamation was echoed in almost the same moment by Greg at the other side of the room.

"Sorry, boss," Sally's strident voice said in response. "Come on, lean on me, I've got ya. You're all right."

John closed his eyes and allowed himself a small smile before letting Sherlock help him the rest of the way up.

"You didn't _wait_ for me," Sherlock snapped fretfully, guiding him out into the hallway. "How could you and Lestrade _do_ such an idiotic, impulsive thing?"

Sherlock's coat was beaded with cold moisture; John clutched at the back of it for balance. "I—I'm sorry. I'm so _sorry_ , Sherlock, it was a misunderstanding and your text message didn't come through 'til it was too late..."

They reached a wide stairwell, where Sherlock urged him to sit before calling out imperiously for one of the nearby officers. Soon his coat and shoes had been restored to him—the sight of Sherlock kneeling to tie his laces for him made John's throat tighten painfully—and then he was led briskly upstairs and outside into the rain, the arm about his shoulders rigid and trembling.

John gave barely a glance to his surroundings—a church he didn't recognise, hulking behind him in the darkness, and the flashing chaos of police cars and ambulances ahead—before tugging on his partner's coat to stop them.

"Wait," he gasped, and Sherlock turned to look in impatient confusion.

"What is it? You require medical attention, right now!"

"I'm fine! Just—just stop. Come here?"

"I _am_ right here, clearly, John—"

"No, come _here_." John blinked up at him, drawing him close.

Water had begun to weigh Sherlock's hair down into his face; in the strobing blue light, his pale eyes were liquid and unsettled, flicking back and forth over John's features as if afraid to let any nuance pass him by.

"Sherlock," murmured John, reaching out to pull him down. He tasted the rain that gathered upon their lips, mingled with the tang of blood washing from his face and the slightly night-sour flavour of the man's kiss. "Oh, love. I'm okay, my love, we're okay," he spoke into Sherlock's suddenly desperate mouth, clinging to him, heedless of the cold rain beginning to soak them both through.

 

\-----

 


	3. GREG: Silent Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the days since the incident, Greg's been trying hard to regain his equilibrium, at work and at home. Unfortunately, that's not as easy a task as he'd expected it might be.

  
**3\. GREG: Silent Aftershocks**   
_27 October 2015_

.

 

Sally Donovan gave a perfunctory knock as she opened Greg's office door and popped her head in. "Sir?"

"Yeah?" Greg glanced up only long enough to interpret her expression as _pending personal inquiry,_ as opposed to _work-related need,_ and immediately looked down again at the form on his desk.

"I just wanted to know if you needed anything—I was on my way to the kitchen," she said, too casually.

"Sally, you are aware that I'm fully capable of getting up and fetching a coffee for myself?"

"Of course, sir."

"Then by all means, fetch me one if you feel you must," he sighed, resting his head in his hand without regard for the pen he still held.

Instead, she slipped into his office and closed the door behind herself. "Ronny and I think you're working too hard," she asserted, lifting her chin.

"Well, you're wrong."

"No, we're not. You should've at least taken a day off..."

"I _did_ take a day off! Surely, you remember that." Not that _he_ remembered terribly much of it. When they'd dropped him at his flat just after sunrise on Friday, he'd dragged himself straight to bed and stayed there until four the next morning, stirring only for physical necessities and his scheduled doses of painkillers.

Her lips compressed briefly at his answer. "A day off that wasn't _the same day_ you were pulled out of a church basement in Surrey!"

"What do you want me to say? There was _work_ to be done. Two criminals dead, one seriously injured, and three arrests—you know as well as I do, any case ending in a shootout comes with a full complement of hoops to jump."

"And there was no need for you to be the one jumping them," his sergeant retorted.

"It was that, or nothing." Greg tried to keep a tight rein on his emotions as he explained. "D'you think I was simply minding my own business, the other night? Out for a nice evening stroll, when the gang we'd been after for a month just _happened_ to catch sight of me and decide I'd be the perfect bloke to attack? No, Sal. John and me, we were out on a limb, and we got ourselves in trouble like the worst sort of rookie idiots! You'd like to paint us as the victims in this, I know, but it was _my_ failed judgment. I was _there_. And all I can do to make up for that is help you tie up this case, and put it away properly."

Within Sally's prolonged silence, he could see a whole series of arguments being thought up and discarded; he leaned gingerly back in his chair, careful of the sling he wore, and met her eyes calmly while he waited.

"I'll just get you that coffee," she said quietly, and turned to go.

"Sally..."

She paused with her hand on the door.

"I'll stay home tomorrow, all right? And—thank you."

Her curls bounced in an abrupt nod, and she left without looking back.

 

.

 

When Greg returned from work that night, the hush inside his flat was nearly overpowering. Pocketing his keys, he stood just inside the door for a long minute, taking stock of the unfamiliar surroundings.

It had been barely two weeks since he'd relocated here, to the two storey terraced house that Sherlock had scouted out unbidden. The move had been meant to occur at the first of the month, but a tough murder had come up to throw a wrench in the works—hardly a surprise, really. Greg considered himself lucky that both his previous landlord and his new one had proven flexible in regards to key turnovers. Now, of course, he could consider himself lucky in a few other ways—not least of which being that he'd gotten all of his furniture roughly in place before effectively losing the use of one arm for three weeks.

Greg pulled off his scarf and the coat he wore awkwardly draped over his left side, laying them atop a stack of still-packed boxes within reach of the door. Similar piles graced every room, and he'd so far hung nothing on the walls to break up the unnerving sense of increased space.

It was a very nice flat—that was undeniable; he wouldn't have listened to Sherlock's meddling suggestions otherwise—but it wasn't _home._ Not yet.

 

.

 

Dinner came from a microwaved tray; there was nothing good on television, but Greg eventually found a documentary on marine biology. He left it on for the comfort of calming voices while he stubbornly forced himself to unpack one of the boxes in the kitchen. Not another morning would go by without the use of his favourite frying pan...that decision was final.

His minor mission completed, he considered cutting open another box of dishes, but by then his motivation to be proactive had entirely fizzled. It was time for another pain pill, besides.

_Nobody else is here for me to be accountable to, yet,_ he thought; something inside him twinged at the excuse, but he was too tired to let it work up into actual guilt. Instead, he poured himself a glass of water, shutting off the lights—and the blue whales—before padding upstairs.

Greg took his time in the shower, letting the heat soak into sore muscles and bruised flesh. Afterwards, he wrapped himself in his grey flannel robe to brush his teeth. He was enjoying the free feeling of having the immobilising sling off his arm after the long workday; he wasn't about to be doing anything active, so he decided to leave it off until he was ready to go to sleep. Tossing the hated thing over a corner of his headboard for later, he climbed into bed and sat cross-legged, propping himself against a few stacked pillows. He tucked the front of his robe closed, arranged the blankets over his legs to his satisfaction, and ran a hand through his damp hair. Then, with a glance at the alarm clock, he dragged over the laptop he'd left on the bedside table and opened it on his lap. It was almost ten, and he still had one more obligation for the evening.

 

.

 

Although he wasn't feeling up to it at all, Greg worked hard to dredge up a smile from somewhere before touching the Skype button.

But then the call connected; he heard "Happy Tuesday," and suddenly, the smile was real.

"Happy Tuesday, Anna! Um, sorry I didn't stay dressed to call you, I was well and truly knackered..."

"I literally have no idea how you think that could possibly be a problem for me, hon. _God_ , I didn't even _know_ how much I was missing you this week, gorgeous," Anna sighed, leaning wistfully towards the webcam on her side.

"Same here," he grinned. "You're a sight for sore eyes, love. So beautiful."

She blushed and glanced away, fiddling with the neck of the forest green jumper she wore. "You know, I almost called you in the middle of the night, last night. You would've already been at work for the day, though; I didn't want to bother you..."

"Aw, really?"

"Yeah, I had this crazy nightmare—there was a really big rabid dog, and it was chasing me around my old high school, except that none of the hallways went where they were supposed to. And then I was still running but I was on the roof, and there were all these weird levels and ledges everywhere; I don't even know how, but there was a _river_ up there too and I nearly got swept away. It doesn't even sound that awful, I guess, telling you about it, but it really shook me up..."

Greg blinked, eyes wide. "That sounds horrid, love. You should have called! I've tried to tell you, I won't mind."

"That's sweet of you to say, and I promise that if I ever _truly_ need to, I won't hesitate to call. But it was fine."

"If you're sure."

"Really, Greg. It was just a silly bad dream. It wasn't even as bad as the ones I've had where things happen to _you_ — _those_ are the worst! You know how I worry." Anna grimaced and shrugged. "Anyway, that stupid nightmare was hardly the most noteworthy feature of my week. The fridge broke down on Friday, and I had to replace it. Nine hundred dollars and a load of new groceries, _ugh_! Liz and I were so busy dealing with that the whole weekend that I didn't even realise I hadn't texted you at all. I'm really sorry."

"Oh, no, don't you worry about _that_. That's just how it goes, sometimes! You were able to get the fridge sorted, though?"

She nodded, smiling again. "Delivered yesterday afternoon, and it chills like a charm. So, how was your week? Nothing so unpleasant, I hope?"

Greg looked down at the image of the woman on his computer screen, tracing his eyes almost hungrily over her familiar features. His mind was filled at once with a dizzy echo of the sinking, desperate feeling, in that final minute—the press of the knife at his belly and the sudden certainty that he wouldn't make it out alive...

_I thought I'd never see your face again..._

Words propelled themselves from his lips before he could even consider them. "No, nothing exciting to report. Been a slow week out here, really."

_Fuck, why did I say that?_

Her expression softened fondly. "Well, I'm glad. It's nice to hear that London occasionally takes a break from gruesome murder. I'll bet it's got Sherlock on edge, though, hasn't it?"

_I might've died! I should be telling her!_

He nodded and agreed, "Yeah, a little. But London never stays all that quiet for very long. I'm sure something new will crop up soon to keep him satisfied."

_No, no, no..._

It was as if Greg's brain and his mouth had somehow become entirely disconnected. He certainly hadn't planned on this—sure, his sling wasn't on and his robe was closed, and that hadn't _quite_ been accidental, but he _had_ planned to tell Anna what had happened!

He'd simply wanted to break it to her _gently_ , with a little preparation, rather than pop onto her screen obviously injured and send her into a tailspin of concern. That was all...

_Bloody hell, what am I doing? Stop it, STOP this and tell her!_

The rational, honest side of him shouted frantically inside his head as he continued chatting, but he could find no opening to pull the casual, lighthearted conversation around, no way to force the truth past his smiling teeth.

Their Skype call lasted only a few minutes longer, but by the end of it Greg felt as if he'd been put through an emotional wringer. Shoving his computer abruptly away to the empty side of the bed, he dragged off the dressing gown and flung it across the room with a growl of frustrated anger at himself.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with me," he said into the air, strapping his sling into place with rough, jerky movements and throwing himself back onto his pillows.

There was no answer from the silent flat. He was still searching for one within his whirling thoughts as he slipped into sleep, exhausted.

 

.

 

Martha Hudson answered Greg's knock on Wednesday evening with a delighted coo. "Oh, Gregory, John mentioned you might be by! Come in, come in! You'll catch cold in all this damp, standing about outside with your coat open like that."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson. It's lovely to see you, you look well..." He leaned obligingly over to let her kiss his cheek, and put up only a mild protest when she insisted on helping him off with his coat, smiling politely as she tutted in sympathy at the immobilised arm beneath it.

The smile dropped away a minute later, as soon as he started up the stairs.

When he entered the sitting room, John wasn't smiling either; he was fiddling with a shiny new phone, regarding it with an air of resigned disappointment. The bruises underlining his eyes had turned a sickly green. "Ah, Greg. You can have Sherlock's chair," he said when he looked up.

"Not in?"

"Not for a few hours, anyway. I told him we needed some time, tonight, you and I." The phone beeped in response to something John had done, and his mouth twisted to one side. "Damn. I know I had to get a new one regardless, but it would've been nice to have the old one to transfer data from! Count yourself lucky you didn't have to go phone shopping this week."

"Nah, I got mine back in one piece," Greg replied, shutting the door behind himself. "The arsehole who nicked it on the Tube—I think Sally and Sherlock put the fear of God into him, frankly."

"Yeah, Sherlock mentioned that. I can only imagine, with them having wasted over an hour tracking down your phone and chasing its signal all the way to Hackney, only to find a clueless drunk kid? I'll bet they pulled out _all_ the stops laying into him!" John set the mobile aside and got to his feet. "Tea? I'd offer you more, but..."

"But if either of us were allowed to have anything stronger, we'd be at the Duke right now. Tea's fine, John." He settled himself into the black leather armchair with a sigh, tipping his head up and closing his eyes while his host bumped around in the kitchen.

"Right, here you go," John said, rousing him; he handed Greg a mug, then returned to the kitchen to retrieve his own. As he sat, he tilted his head wryly at his own restrained arm. "We make quite the pair, don't we?"

"A matched set of poor sods," Greg agreed. "Mine's driving me batty already, how about yours?"

"It's annoying, but I definitely don't have it so bad as you. I'm only wearing the sling about half the time—just keeping myself from overusing the muscle while the contusion heals. And I don't need to sleep with it on, either."

"I guess that's where I can thank the soporific properties of the meds they gave me. How is it I can take a whole day off, doing nothing of any use at all, and still be this clapped out at the end of it?"

John smiled. "I'm not surprised you're tired. You've been working like a fiend since Saturday! When Sally told us you'd stayed home today, I honestly thought Sherlock was about to hug her."

Something in that statement didn't make sense to Greg. No, scratch that—a _few_ things...

The face he made while trying to sort it out was clearly amusing; John chuckled, but he quickly gave in and explained. "We were at the Yard because he'd promised to bring her the results from his last tests. Sherlock and Sally seem to have really changed their dynamic, since last week. They practically get on like mates—I'd never have believed it! But you've been so busy, with everything, I guess you haven't gotten in the room with both of them at once, yet."

"...Tests?" Greg managed weakly, still reeling.

"Yeah. The rope they used to bind our wrists was a definitive match to the bundling ties on the shipment you intercepted three weeks ago. Your case against Antoine Hébert and his people should be pretty well locked up, now."

Greg's stomach lurched; with the mention of the lead counterfeiter, his shock over Sherlock had immediately been replaced by a wave of unpleasant guilt. He sucked down a large gulp of tea to cover the reaction.

John crossed his legs and continued, "Pity that Antoine was one of the ones killed, really. Sally probably would've got more useful stuff from _him_ in interrogation than she did from those two big lugs..."

" _Stop_!" The exclamation rang harshly between them. Greg took a breath and barreled on, surprised at his own agitation. "Can we stop talking about that case, now? God, John, I can't—I just wanna spend _one night_ thinking about _anything_ else!"

"All right," answered John, but he narrowed his eyes and studied Greg for a long moment before saying, "You invited me out—invited yourself in, whatever—but I guess I just assumed I knew what would be on your mind. If I was wrong, I'm sorry. What's going on?"

Greg set aside the mug, freeing his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You _sure_ we can only have tea?"

 

\-----

 


	4. ANNA: Seeking Traces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna's got some big decisions to make; there's a lot on her mind, but she's not alone in sorting through it.

  
**4\. ANNA: Seeking Traces**  
_2 November 2015_

.

 

The last bright rays of the afternoon's sunlight slanted across the dining room table, catching tiny sparkling specks in their path. Anna found herself captivated; she felt oddly numb, as if large wheels were turning within her mind, moving thoughts too obscure for her to parse...

"You're doing it again."

"Hm?" Anna blinked and turned her head to look into the next room, where her best friend lounged on the sofa.

Liz answered without looking up, pointedly flipping a page in her magazine. "You're staring off into space, petting a wall."

"Petting a—" Looking back, she realised that it wasn't a terribly inaccurate description. She let her hand fall to her side sheepishly. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"He's not a part of the panelling, you know," Liz commented. She laid the magazine facedown in her lap.

"What? Who?"

"Andy." At Anna's look of surprise, she tilted her curly head to one side. "What? I'm not wrong, am I?"

"Um, I just thought you were going to say...Greg." Anna bit her lip and gestured a little helplessly as she said it. She knew she hadn't been the easiest person to live with, these last few months.

"That's a whole different kind of moping. Trust me, you do enough of that too, and you always look sort of like a sad Disney princess when you're doing it. Also, for your information, your David doldrums give you stomachache; they're unmistakable. But you've been acting like _this_ , on and off, ever since you put the house on the market."

"That was only two weeks after I came back. You can really tell the difference?"

"Maybe I'm just a genius, babe," grinned Liz. "Come here. Sit _down_ , geez, it's like talking to a piece of dandelion fluff."

Anna twisted her mouth sceptically at the strange metaphor, but did as she was told, flopping down with a huff onto the sofa cushion Liz patted.

"All right," the blonde began, "clearly, I've been letting you slide too long."

"Excuse me?"

"I figured you needed your space—the opportunity to come around to things in your own time—but it's getting too frustrating to watch you bumble along. I've got to take matters into my own hands."

"For a 'free spirit' you are a truly surprising control freak," Anna grumbled.

"Yeah, well, for a level-headed illuminator, you do a hell of a job keeping yourself in the dark!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about..."

Liz shook her head in fond frustration. "You _would_ say that. Look, if I'm coming off as _too_ controlling, you know you can always just smack me. But hear me out. You feel connected to Andy here, don't you?"

"Well...I guess so. Yeah. He—he trusted me to take care of his things."

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't about his _things_ , Anna-bear."

Anna frowned deeply and stared at her feet.

"Okay," Liz said gently, "we'll just leave the issue of _why_ for another day, huh? You were his friend a lot longer than I was, and I'm sure you've already thought a lot about why he did it. So. The things Andy left in this house, the ones that meant something to the two of you. You're going to keep a lot of them with you, when you move, right?"

"Some of them," Anna nodded. "As many as I can."

"You're not worried about the things, though. If you were, I'd be catching you fondling the books and knick-knacks, not stroking the doorframes. So you can go ahead and laugh at me for picking up mystic tendencies from my yogis, but I'm convinced you're feeling a connection to the home itself."

Anna did want to laugh, just a little, but she couldn't exactly dispute her friend's claim. Andy Hardwick had lived here; he'd struggled with his addiction here; he'd hidden messages in the very _walls_ here, for her eyes only. It was only natural that she should feel closer to his memory every time she unlocked his front door, or cooked dinner on his stove.

Liz let the idea sink in briefly, then spoke again. "If you're so upset about the idea of selling the house, why are you doing it?"

"Because...I can't ship it to London with the rest of my stuff?"

"Okay, that's true enough," she laughed. "But you obviously don't feel right, getting rid of it."

Anna sighed and tipped her head towards the ceiling. "What else am I supposed to do, Lizzie? I can't expect to maintain this place properly from four thousand miles away."

"All right. Go with me for a second here...imagine, if you didn't have to worry about the taxes, or the upkeep, or the utility bills. If it all boiled down to _keep it_ or _sell it_ , and none of the rest mattered...what would you do? Don't think. Honest answer, _quick_."

"Keep it," Anna blurted.

"Then keep it," Liz urged her.

"But the rest _does_ matter!"

"I know." Smiling sympathetically, she got up from the sofa and walked away to the kitchen; Anna heard the clink of bottles or jars as Liz rummaged for something in the new refrigerator.

There was a long pause. Anna waited for her friend to continue speaking, or to return to the living room; when neither of these happened, she made a frustrated sound in her throat and got up to follow.

"Is that it, then? That's your big advice, 'keep it'?"

Liz said something in response, but it was muffled by the spoon sticking out of her mouth. "Sorry," she tried again after a bit of swallowing, "being the voice of reason makes me hungry. Peanut butter banana sandwich, with marshmallow fluff—want some?"

"Um. Peanut butter, yes. Banana, no. And marshmallow fluff is disgusting," answered Anna, sidetracked. She retrieved a jar of Concord grape jam and set it on the worktop, watching with crossed arms as Liz happily began assembling a second sandwich. "All right, Miss Voice of Reason and Mystical Connections. I'm listening. How do you propose I solve this problem?"

"Mm. Well," hummed Liz, handing her a plate, "first things first. You pull Andy's house off the market; there hadn't been any real action on the listing yet, anyway. Then, you do some math,"—she paused to enjoy a large bite—"and decide on a monthly figure that basically covers the costs of ownership, minus utilities. That's your asking rent."

Anna choked a little on her own mouthful. "You want me to rent it out to someone. _Really_. And in the next six weeks, you think that I'll be able to find a reliable tenant, someone who's willing to deal with a landlady on the other side of the ocean?"

Liz rested her hips against the edge of the worktop, crossing her ankles casually, and fixed her friend with an expectant stare made only slightly comical by the smear of marshmallow on one cheek. When Anna entirely failed to follow, she rolled her eyes and smirked.

"I've really enjoyed staying here with you, you know, Anna? This is a nice town to live in," Liz drawled in an apparent change of subject. "And you're pretty fun, when you're not in one of your mopey moods; it's like being back in our dorm in sophomore year, except without awful Erica Duncan breathing down our necks. Man, I'm gonna miss being the one on hand to witness you being so adorably clueless."

"I'll miss you too—wait, clueless?" The penny dropped, at last, and Anna's eyes widened. "You're not saying..."

"Meet your new tenant." Liz placed a hand over her heart, and raised the other in a solemn vow, half-eaten sandwich and all. "I promise to keep the place in good shape, send my rent on time, keep an eye on our boy Garvey, and pay my respects to Andy's ghost for you on a regular basis. Whaddaya say?"

"I say...I should probably get my realtor on the line," Anna responded, breaking into a wide grin.

 

.

 

At four o'clock the following afternoon, Anna and Greg exchanged their customary tongue-in-cheek Tuesday greeting. As usual, the little ritual ended in their grinning at each other like fools for a good thirty seconds.

Greg was the first one of them to gather his wits about him to speak. "So, you can thank Sally for sending me home; I nearly missed making this call."

"Oh yeah? Working late again, huh? If you were needed, you know you could have cancelled..."

"No, no; she was right, I wasn't about to make any more progress tonight. I'll sleep on it, come at things fresh in the morning."

Anna tilted her head to one side in commiseration. "Well, I'm glad you took her advice. You look almost as tuckered out as you did last Tuesday, and you said you weren't even working a _case_ then. Sally and I have similar feelings, when it comes to your tendency to work too much overtime."

"I know, I caught an earful from her about it last week, too," Greg admitted ruefully. "But I do have a case on, right now. I promise!"

Chuckling, Anna assured him, "I believe you, honey. Do you want to talk me through any of it, before bed? Shake something loose?"

What little she could see of his shoulders seemed to tighten—he'd placed himself fairly close to his screen, the last few times they'd spoken—and he glanced uncomfortably to one side as he answered, "Er, thanks love, but...not tonight, okay?"

Anna knew that sometimes, Greg truly appreciated her offers to lend her ear. At other times he simply didn't feel up to discussing the things he saw in the course of his duties, though, and she really couldn't blame him.

"All right," she said, dropping the subject without argument.

 

.

 

Their discussion moved on aimlessly through a number of topics, including the newly hatched plans to save the Chicago house from being sold. Although Greg reacted positively to the news, Anna could tell his attention wasn't really focused.

_It's probably this case that's bothering him, whatever it is_ , Anna thought, noting the hint of tightness around his eyes, obvious to her with the webcam set at this close angle.

Occasionally their weekly video calls weren't entirely satisfying—one or the other of them would be tired, or distracted, and the conversation would limp along unnaturally until they chuckled together and agreed to sign off. In the early days of their long-distance relationship, these instances had caused a bit of needless worry, for both of them; now, Anna took it in stride.

"You got the boxes I sent you?" she asked, changing the subject again in another attempt to salvage the faltering chat.

He nodded, absently stroking his jaw with his right hand. "Yeah—picked 'em up yesterday after lunch. Haven't had the chance to get into them, yet; anything important?"

"Not really, it's just a mix of stuff. Please don't think you have to unpack these as they come, sweetie; these ones are mostly a few books, photo albums, summer clothes..."

"But it's okay with you if I want to, right?"

"What—yes! Yes, of course you can. I mean, you'd have to decide where things go, if you do...assuming I don't send so much random crap you just get buried in it..." Anna grimaced, thinking of the tedious work she and Liz had undertaken to sort out her things. It turned out that Anna still harboured some packrat tendencies; while her friend was enthusiastic about helping out, she was far less skilled at convincing Anna to part with things than she was at providing emotional advice.

"We have plenty of room, don't you worry. I think you'll like the flat, love. Tell you what: I'll put away whatever I can as we go, and then you can tell me where things _really_ belong, when you come home."

Anna's breath caught. "When I come home," she repeated softly.

"Yeah," Greg murmured, his expression becoming tender. "When you come home."

It seemed to Anna as if the air had become thick between them, charged with electricity, the distance separating them both reduced and painfully enhanced. For a long minute, neither of them could find anything to say, although their eyes spoke eloquently.

Finally, Anna blinked hard, banishing the beginnings of wistful tears, and cleared her throat. "You should go get some sleep, Greg. We'll talk again soon, okay?"

His voice was husky and rough, too, as he replied, "All right, sweetheart. I'll be dreaming of you."

 

\-----

 


	5. JOHN: What You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't sure what to make of Sherlock, in the weeks after. It's hard to say what's different, between them; ultimately, he may find that the real change lies within himself...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes us back in time before moving forward, beginning the day before Greg's actions in Chapter 3. Just wanted to point it out in case anyone gets confused.

  
**5\. JOHN: What You Are**   
_26 October, 16 November 2015_

.

 

There was a little star pencilled in beside the date on John's calendar, as there was beside every third Monday.

Usually this notation meant that some time after dinner, when the hour began to grow late, John would kiss his partner goodnight, turn out the lights, and take himself off to the bedroom alone. Sherlock would spend an hour or two motionless on the sofa, immersed in the strange landscape of his thoughts. Then he would slip into bed at last, murmuring a few words of apology for disturbing John's sleep.

Invariably, John would pretend he had been woken, mumbling and yawning before rolling into a comfortable position; almost certainly, Sherlock knew it to be an act. They never spoke of it.

Tonight, however, the entire evening routine went quite a bit differently. As the credits rolled on John's favourite Bond film he aimed the remote control to stop the DVD, looking up to find his partner already standing by to assist.

"Here," said Sherlock, offering his hand.

"I don't need help," John protested automatically, before realising that he'd slipped down into a position on the sofa that left him unable to leverage himself without the use of both arms.

Sherlock huffed a sigh that seemed both frustrated and smug as John acquiesced. Once they were up and moving, he kept hold of John's free hand and led him straight through the kitchen, absently shoving the lab goggles from the top of his head and dropping them on the table as they passed.

"Oh, it's got later than I thought," John yawned. "Sorry; I'll bet you're eager to have the sitting room to yourself..."

"I'm not doing it."

"What?"

Sherlock guided him into the bedroom and began to help him off with the sling, frowning in unnecessary concentration. "I said, I'm not _doing_ it. Turn around."

John obeyed, but craned his head to peer over his shoulder. "Well, why not? Oh—Sherlock, you don't have to fuss over me like this!—"

"Don't you try to downplay it," Sherlock scolded him, carefully manoeuvring John's shirt off over his right arm; the swelling of the severe contusion was only just beginning to lessen, and the bruising was extensive. "Obviously you're still in quite a bit of pain. Even if I couldn't see _this_ ,"—he brushed a fingertip lightly over the hard knot distending the bicep, and John shivered—"the film you've just watched is always your go-to choice whenever you feel under the weather."

"I just—"

"And, you've slept very poorly, the last three nights. This is hardly a suitable occasion to leave you unattended. I've gone without before, many a time; I can skip it."

John bristled at the choice of words. He was no _child_ , to be monitored and coddled! He nearly snapped out the angry reply that immediately sprang to his lips, but thankfully managed to stop himself in time. Every throb of the ache in his arm was a vicious reminder that the last time he'd let his short temper get the better of him, it had been completely unwarranted.

_And it almost got me and Greg killed. For God's sake, my friend almost died right in front of me, and it was all my fault!_

While he lost himself in that shameful thought, swallowing his anger back and turning it harshly against himself, Sherlock was circling around him, silently plucking at his clothing, disrobing him so gently and carefully as to be almost unobtrusive; before John knew it, he was standing in only his pants. He flushed, suddenly self-conscious, but Sherlock's face showed neither judgment nor desire. He was solicitous and attentive, but outwardly emotionless—tightly controlled—and it sent a chill of realisation down John's spine.

"Go and brush your teeth," Sherlock instructed with perfect calm. "I'll fetch a glass of water for your pain medication."

 

.

 

When the lights went out, John stared bleakly up at the ceiling, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Sherlock shifted and fidgeted beside him, kicking irritably at an errant fold of sheet beneath the covers before stilling all at once.

"You didn't need to," John murmured.

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, long and slow, before speaking. "You seem to operate under a different definition of 'need' than I, John."

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm _sorry_."

"Excuse me?"

"You're angry at me, and you have every right to be, and I totally deserve it, and _why_ haven't you _said anything_?" John rolled towards the centre without thinking as he said it, and caught himself with a hiss of pain that watered his eyes as he turned over quickly to face the opposite direction.

"I'm angry, yes. You've got _that_ much correct."

"Then why—"

Tension rippled through Sherlock's low growl, but the man lay stiffly unmoving. "I'm angry at an idiot delinquent who likes stealing mobile phones to sell them! I'm upset that Sally won't let me take part in her interrogations! I'm frustrated that Lestrade has been shut up in his office for three days, burying himself in paperwork to make up for having thrown a wrench into the case he's worked a month on, and that the trigger-happy imbeciles on the response squad managed to kill or seriously injure _every_ suspect that could have made this easy to resolve!"

John caught his breath at hearing the outburst, curling instinctively inwards on his side without really knowing why—but before he could respond a large, cool hand found his back, a quick and tentative touch to confirm the position of his bad arm before his bedmate drew himself up close.

"And I'm utterly _furious_ that I wasn't the one to kill them _myself_ ," Sherlock hissed into the skin at the back of John's neck.

"God, Sherlock," whispered John, failing to suppress a tiny shudder at feeling the rush of breath behind his ear. "You don't really mean that?"

"You have no idea," he grated. "If any of them had hurt you more seriously, if you'd been—the response squad would have been _hard_ pressed to hold me _back_!"

John was shocked into stillness as the impassioned declaration sank in. Sherlock, too, seemed taken aback at his own vehemence; he briefly tightened his arms around John's torso and took a few deep breaths before quietly changing the subject.

"I'm going back to the Yard again, tomorrow," he said. "Sally has promised me full access to the thugs' interrogation footage, as well as a sample of the rope from the church basement. Do you think you might feel up to coming along?"

John nodded, feeling the tickle of Sherlock's curls pressed against his nape as he forced a response past the lump in his throat. "Sure, we can go together. At least I won't have to answer any more questions. We should go out afterwards and get me a new mobile, as well..."

 

.

 

Over the course of the next three weeks, things had slowly returned to something generally approximating normal. A few minor cases had come and gone, two private clients from the website and one through the Yard; Sherlock had grumbled at being asked to assist Alan Dimmock, but after Sally had taken him aside for a brief chat he'd looked over the evidence willingly enough. He'd even managed to solve the case with a minimum of disparaging comments thrown the way of the young DI.

Meanwhile, Greg had remained on grudging desk duty while his dislocation healed, handling a series of routine investigations during which his team had run all of the legwork for him. He'd complained to John of boredom, of course, but the protests had seemed half-hearted. John thought he might understand that, actually. The bland normalcy of his own part-time work at the surgery, once he'd returned to it, had seemed oddly reassuring and safe, where once upon a time he'd spent many of those hours desperate to get away. He knew it would balance out, eventually—that his irrepressible desire to "see the battlefield", as Mycroft had so delicately phrased it, wouldn't stay away for long. Likewise, Greg's inquisitive, purposeful nature was gradually returning to the fore, and once he'd received clearance to stop wearing the shoulder sling he would be ready to take on his usual sorts of cases once more.

The strangeness that still lingered for them both, that John still sensed beneath the casual commiserations of their phone calls, came down to guilt, as far as John could tell. Greg had no part of the blame for what had happened to them both, of course; John shouldered that on his own. He'd hoped it would ease now. The counterfeiters' ring was busted; one of the two goons had given information during questioning that had ultimately led Sherlock to the contact in France. Their injuries were healed, all the reports were filed away, and even John's sleeping had settled out for the most part. So the whole thing was over and done with.

But John _still_ felt guilty, though he'd stopped bringing it up in conversation, because it never failed to upset Sherlock whenever he did. And because he knew the sting of his own shame—the weight of it, sitting like a blurry shadow beneath his thoughts—he recognised the unspoken ache that tinted the silences between Greg's words when they talked.

Neither of them had invited the other out to speak about it in person, not since the Wednesday after it had happened. That night, John had listened to Greg confessing how he'd lied to his fiancée—not exactly a _lie_ , John thought, more an omission for the sake of her peace of mind, but then he'd always known himself to be selfish. Had he been in a similar situation, John could hardly imagine having done any different. Why hurt the one you love, needlessly, when they're far away? Why give them more cause to lie awake nights worrying for your safety, when nothing they could possibly do would have changed anything? When Greg had finished recounting his actions, slumping forward in Sherlock's armchair and pressing the fingers of his right hand hard into his eyes, John hadn't really known what advice to give him.

Three weeks on, he still wasn't sure if the advice he'd offered had been right.

 

.

 

Greg had been cleared to remove his shoulder sling on Sunday afternoon; after work on Monday, he'd celebrated his return to full duty by inviting his team out for drinks. John had gone along, gamely accepting the increasingly drunken toasts offered up to his brawling skills and knot-picking dexterity. He'd raised his own glass in turn, praising Greg's clear-headedness and calm under pressure; Ronny had called a toast to Sally's leadership throughout the ordeal, and they'd drunk at Sally's request to Ronny's quick work on sorting through footage from hundreds of traffic cameras. Not to be left out, Phil had recounted Sherlock's extraordinary feats of deduction with something akin to awe in his watery blue eyes. (John had blinked, hard, and drained his drink in one go to stop himself from snorting aloud. The gangly forensic tech had begun to show alarming signs of admiration, especially since Sherlock had returned from the dead; it was probably a good thing that Sherlock had shunned the gathering.)

By the time they'd finally called it a night, everyone had imbibed more than their fair share. It was about eleven thirty when John paid his cab fare and turned to sway across the pavement to his doorstep, patting his coat pockets to check for his belongings.

"All right," he muttered to himself, steadying himself with a forearm on the door frame when the key slipped a second time. "Got yourself properly soused, didn't you Johnny."

Inside, the front hall was dark and quiet. John took his time on the stairs, anticipating the comments Sherlock would likely make about his obvious inebriation. It was surprising, actually, that he hadn't received any texts in the four hours he'd been at the pub.

_Maybe he's got himself engrossed in a new experiment,_ John thought. The landing ahead of him was dark, but light spilled from beneath the kitchen door; he took this as confirmation of his theory.

"Before you say it, love," he said as he pushed into the kitchen, "yes, I've had a bit more than I intended. And no, they don't need me at the surgery tomorrow, I already checked."

There was no answer—the room was empty, and the jumbled items on the table didn't seem much different than they'd been that afternoon. No experiment, then.

"Sherlock?" He peered down the hall, but the bedroom and bathroom doorways were open and dark, just like the sitting room on his other side.

Shrugging, John moved to the cabinet and retrieved a small glass, then reached on tiptoes to the back of the shelf. He'd stashed a bit of his favourite Canadian whiskey there.

"Might as well, anyway," he told the humming fridge, pouring himself a finger or two before replacing the bottle. It had been a cheerful evening, no doubt, but although everyone present had treated the subject matter jovially, there was no getting around the feelings it stirred up.

Drink in hand, he noticed that a plate of Mrs Hudson's cranberry scones had been left on the worktop; the stretched cling film stood up higher than the empty plate in two places.

"At least it looks like you ate something," he noted. "Wherever you are." He lifted the plastic and snagged one for himself; as he turned in place with it, his eyes finally slid to the calendar he kept clipped to the side of the fridge.

There was a star beside the date.

_Of course._

"Twinkle, twinkle," John mumbled quietly around his bite of pastry, walking into the sitting room and settling into his chair with a sigh.

The far end of the room remained in deep shadow, even though the fluorescent kitchen lamp threw a hard-edged block of light that painted the silhouette of John's head onto the closed curtains behind the leather armchair; as his eyes adjusted, Sherlock's still figure on the sofa became gradually apparent. John's memory of the afternoon coloured the man's shirt blood-red, but it remained obscured by the prevailing darkness, so that the pale grey gleam of Sherlock's cheekbones and the column of his throat seemed to float above the slighter lines of his pressed hands.

John let a sip of the whiskey linger in his mouth, warming his throat as he swallowed it down slowly.

Usually he would make himself scarce, while Sherlock did this. It was his partner's private business, after all, this ritual he carried out within the workings of his incredible intellect...but John was buzzing, tingling. He couldn't resist staring.

_What's it like in there?_ he wondered.

The longer he sat and watched, the more definition John was able to see in the lines and shadows of his partner's face. The lids of his eyes—John had expected them to be closed, but he was surprised to note the slimmest opening, a bare sliver of grey iris twitching gently back and forth in irregular rhythms. Not like dreaming, but not the calm, stone stillness he'd witnessed during cases, when the answer to a pressing puzzle lay buried somewhere deep inside Sherlock's mind.

He knew he should be used to these evenings, by this point. They had been going on throughout the time he'd known Sherlock, although he hadn't always been aware of their regularity, or of what they entailed. These days he understood more, enough to vaguely picture what was happening; having an explanation should have made it less unsettling, on the whole.

It didn't.

Sitting here, only a few paces away while Sherlock selected memories from the past weeks to rub out of existence...while he deliberately erased people he'd seen, conversations he'd had, and presumably anything else he didn't deem vital to his work...it felt like standing by as witness to an invisible destruction: strange, and disquieting, and somehow eerily beautiful.

John remained still in the armchair long after the scone was eaten and the whiskey drained. He gazed at the dim contours of the thinking figure until his eyelids were drooping, scratchy with drunken exhaustion. As he sat, hardly breathing, enthralled by his partner's otherworldly presence, his own thoughts drew slow, heavy circles in his mind, gradually descending into an uneasy white blank...

Sherlock's hand on his shoulder woke him, and drew him muzzily down the hall to the bedroom. No words were spoken as they shed their clothing, John clumsy and dazed, Sherlock oddly pliant and tactile. They crawled into a close embrace, face to face, and John's last awareness was of a soothing hand, stroking his back.

 

\-----

 


	6. SHERLOCK: All Boxed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock finds himself in a sour mood, he often relies on John to understand and soothe it. But if John is the unwitting source of that confusing ill temper...where else can he go?

  
**6\. SHERLOCK: All Boxed Up**  
_22 November 2015_

.

 

It was a bright, crisp Sunday afternoon; birdsong sounded from myriad sources unseen, and London's army of pushchair-wielding mothers was out in force upon the streets, toting their colourfully bundled progeny into overcrowded parks to take advantage of the break in November's dreary, rainy weather.

In other words, it was nearly intolerable.

Sherlock swept along the pavement with a deep scowl. He wouldn't have minded rain—it would have made a fitting counterpoint to his mood—but the thought of going back to sulk in the quiet flat was in no way attractive. He and John had been enjoying a pleasant lunch at a newly opened Lebanese establishment, deep in conversation about the pros and cons of tweaking their respective websites' designs, when John had received a text. Bloody _Sarah Sawyer_ , calling him in for an emergency shift, _again_ —Sherlock had been tempted to snatch the phone from John's hands and return a message informing her that she should see to disciplining Dr Bressler, who'd clearly been taking advantage of every possible excuse to skive off work frequently. Nobody's daughter could possibly be _that_ accident-prone.

John had anticipated his temper, however, and had held the device securely out of reach as he'd sent an affirmative reply. "Sorry, Sherlock," he'd said, smiling fondly across the booth, "it can't be helped. Sarah gives me leeway every single time we have a case, and in return I take my lumps. At least I got to finish eating this time."

 _Hmph,_ grumbled Sherlock silently in his absent partner's direction as he stormed down into the first Tube station he encountered. _Take your lumps, indeed! She takes advantage of your giving nature, and you capitulate every single time out of internalised guilt. You caused her to be kidnapped five and a half years ago; there must be a statute of limitations on such things..._

The Underground lacked the wholly irritating sunlight, and provided no shortage of stupid people to glower at. Had Sherlock been in a better mood, or known where he wanted to go, he would have preferred a cab; today, however, stewing in his distemper surrounded by strangers felt appropriate.

He rode through eight stops before his internal monologue threatened to spill out in the form of venomous critique directed at everyone within spitting distance; at the ninth he stalked off and returned to the surface to avoid temptation. The _last_ time he'd scathingly assessed a stranger's personal habits on the Tube, three people had filmed him on their mobiles and posted it online. Notoriety did have its disadvantages.

Squinting uncharitably at his new surroundings, Sherlock found himself on Goldhawk in Shepherd's Bush. _That might do,_ he thought, turning his steps towards the quiet subdivision that lay east of the main road. He could sulk on Lestrade's sofa, and amuse himself snooping through his things, and likely cause quite a diverting reaction when the man returned home from work.

As it turned out, his lockpicks were unnecessary. Lestrade was obviously at home; Sherlock pursed his lips and nearly turned away, but in the end he went ahead and knocked.

 

.

 

"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted him, with some surprise. He wore jeans and a faded green cotton jumper, its sleeves shoved carelessly up past his elbows, and his hair was mussed. "What brings you by? Sorry, did I miss a text?"

"No," replied Sherlock, breezing past him into the flat. "I was in the area."

"In the area. Really? Sherlock, you haven't pounded on my door in daylight hours in—I don't even know how long."

"Well, I hadn't _planned_ on pounding on your door this time, Lestrade. Why aren't you at work?"

The older man gave him a look that clearly communicated suspicion.

 _Hmm, perhaps I might have been less transparent there..._ Sherlock dropped onto the sofa and crossed his legs. "If you must know, I was at loose ends. John was called in to the surgery suddenly."

"Well, I took an early day to get caught up on this mess," Lestrade grunted, stooping to pick up one of the cardboard boxes stacked by the wall. "If you came looking for conversation, you'll have to follow me upstairs."

He considered remaining behind out of sheer stubbornness, but abandoned the idea by the time Lestrade had reached the upper landing. As he stood, the DI's gravelly voice floated down from above.

"Bring up a box, will you, kiddo?"

With a wry twist of his lips, Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and complied.

 

.

 

Upstairs, Sherlock found Lestrade in what was apparently being set up as a guest room. He paused in the doorway, taking in the details: a double bed, recently delivered and still lacking bedding; an old cabinet-style record player repurposed as a bedside table; two tall, quaintly mismatched bookshelves that stood mostly empty.

"So, out with it then," Lestrade said, marking his presence without turning. He'd set his box on the bare mattress and begun digging through its contents, his back to the door as he chose out newspaper-wrapped items and set them aside.

Sherlock hesitated. He looked down at the box in his own arms, which bore postage labels marking it received from Chicago. "Out with what?" he muttered, distracted.

"You either want to complain about something, or ask me something. Right?"

It was true enough, generally. And Sherlock _had_ wanted a place to vent his irritation, when he'd first arrived. But the vitriol had somehow drained from him, in the few minutes he'd been here, leaving him with...what?

With a small frown, he crossed the room to stand opposite Lestrade, depositing his burden.

Lestrade glanced at it, then up at him. "Ah, you chose one of hers. Not surprised." Quirking up one corner of his mouth, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and handed across a small penknife.

Sherlock accepted it and began slicing delicately through the tape. "You didn't?" he asked mildly.

"I'm spacing 'em out. Got enough of my own stuff to get through—Anna's, I open when I need a mood lifter." He smiled at Sherlock's hesitation. "Nah, go on ahead. Look like you could use cheering up; your results may vary, of course."

"Hm." Sherlock pulled away layers of packing material to find a pile of CDs, a few clothing items, and some books. He plucked out a handful of the jewel cases and studied them idly—all between ten and twenty years old, unsurprisingly, but well cared for. "So, Lestrade..."

"Yeah?" Lestrade glanced over his shoulder from the shelving unit, where he was arranging a few of the glass items he'd unpacked.

"How have things been for you, the last four weeks?" Sherlock returned his gaze resolutely to the contents of the box as he said it.

There was a long silence. "That...is not the sort of question I'd expected you to ask," answered Lestrade at last. "I'm—okay. It's good to be back on the job properly. I still get sore pretty easily, but that's a bit better every day. And aside from that, well. I wouldn't say everything's peachy, but I've felt worse."

"John's had trouble sleeping. It's improved over the last fortnight, but that's only served to draw my attention to the fact that...I'm experiencing...similar issues."

A tiny sound followed his quiet admission as Lestrade sucked his teeth; Sherlock buried his hands in the box and came up with a soft, fluttering expanse of thin cotton.

"What happened...you know you weren't to blame, kiddo."

It was the second time Lestrade had used that word, a glaring sign of his sentimental nostalgia. It should have been _irritating_.

Sherlock looked up from folding what had turned out to be a tiered peasant skirt, pulling it reflexively against his chest. "You know exactly how it came about. _Some_ of all that was my fault, Lestrade, at the very least!"

Lestrade nodded slightly. "I'll give you that much, though I'm sure it was accidental. But the way John chose to react to those circumstances was under his control. Just as my actions were under mine."

The skirt was suddenly fascinating, again: meeting Lestrade's earnest eyes for more than a few seconds felt akin to staring into the sun.

"He was angry," Sherlock mumbled at his hands, after a moment.

"He _was_ , at that," Lestrade readily agreed. "It surprised me."

A flush of unexpected bitterness warmed Sherlock's neck. "Why should it have done?" He stepped around the bed and pushed past the other man, shoving Anna's skirt at him—but he found his way blocked by a sturdy arm.

"Hey. _Hey_ ," growled Lestrade, softly and too close to his ear. " _Stop_ it, now. 'S just the two of us, here; just you and me, Sherlock."

Two seconds passed, three; Lestrade's hand remained clasped firmly over Sherlock's forearm until Sherlock released a breath and stopped trying to get through.

Lestrade spoke again, more gently, lifting his hand away. "Now. What's _really_ bothering you?"

Sherlock took a deliberate pace backwards and did his best to regain his customary detached expression. It felt slippery and unstable on his face, his lips too firm and his eyes too wide, but he held it in place by main force as he scrabbled internally for an answer to the question.

_What's really bothering me?_

Another silence stretched between them. He was tempted to fill it with something inconsequential, or needlessly rude; anything, really, to break the confusing tension he felt. But Lestrade was facing him down across the claustrophobic spare room, utterly still and patient, arms loose at his sides—and the _words still wouldn't come._

Finally, Lestrade seemed to take pity on him; he bobbed his head in a gesture to the door. "Let's go downstairs. I'll put the kettle on."

 

.

 

The new flat boasted a generous peninsula worktop that separated the kitchen from the dining area; Sherlock settled himself in a slouch upon one of three stools, looking in as Lestrade clattered about with the tea things. The older man's movements were spare and confident, illustrating an ease his guest didn't share.

When Lestrade brought over two mugs, perching wide-legged on his own stool, Sherlock's tongue was still frozen. Images of John sitting in his place flickered before his eyes, the green ceramic morphing into pint glasses and back again. _Is this how it is, for them?_ he wondered, shifting on his seat.

Lestrade wiped his palms across the knees of his jeans, then leaned sideways into the worktop, resting his chin on his hand. "You look stuck. How about I make a guess? Stab in the dark?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and inhaled steam. Lestrade took this as acquiescence.

"You're still upset about the abduction, yeah, but maybe you're worried more about why John got us into it. I mean, what you said—that was dead on. I know I should've tried harder to pull him back, but he was on a roll; there was definitely something he was upset about. Had you been fighting?"

" _Hn_." The sound caught and scratched in Sherlock's throat; he cleared it with a quick sip of tea and tried again. "No. Not—not particularly. I'd thought—perhaps there was—" Words threatened to fail him once more, and he gestured impatiently with his free hand to spur himself on. "Something I'd failed to do. Or not done well enough, as a romantic partner."

A steel grey brow lifted, then lowered. "But he hasn't said anything?"

Sherlock gave a tiny sideways twitch of his head.

"Look, I...don't get the wrong idea, here, Sherlock. If you think I've got some special insight into what makes John tick, or that he's told me personal things about his relationship with you—" Lestrade frowned and turned to rest both elbows on the worktop, plainly trying to find a way to verbalise his thoughts. "He's about the best friend I've got, these days, and we do talk a lot. But he's really private, when it comes down to it, you know? He wouldn't necessarily tell me something like _that_..."

"I know." They gazed off into the kitchen and drank together, letting those words sink in; then Sherlock murmured, "I sometimes suspect he's jealous of you for having known me longer."

It startled a spluttering laugh out of Lestrade. "Hardly! You think?" At Sherlock's nonchalant shrug, he shook his head and grinned into his cup. "Well. He missed out on a real treat. You were a bloody piece of work, at twenty-eight."

"I suppose so. I'm just glad you make better tea, these days."

"Prat," smiled Lestrade; he sighed a little, and his relief at the break in the mood was palpable.

 

.

 

Sherlock stayed for another hour or so after that; they returned to the task of sorting out boxes, or at least Lestrade did. Sherlock mainly amused himself by lounging nearby and spouting deductions about the items Lestrade unpacked, while Lestrade pretended to grumble about his not helping.

Their conversation took a few dips back into serious territory, but Sherlock had given clear license to skirt the subject of his brief distress for both their sakes, and Lestrade was happy to comply, for the most part. Instead, Lestrade chatted about details of Anna's fast-approaching relocation; Sherlock explained how to determine the quality of a prospective Thai restaurant by analysis of its takeaway menus; they discussed similarities between a recent embezzlement case and one they'd resolved together in 2009, in enthusiastic tones many men (and even Lestrade, surely) would reserve for talk about their favourite football clubs.

When Lestrade began to drop hints about supper, Sherlock promptly extricated himself. Clouds were rolling in to obscure the deepening sunset as he walked back to the main road and hailed a cab; alone in the moving vehicle, he pondered the events of the afternoon with sober concentration.

He felt relieved, somewhat, at having brought himself to confide in Lestrade. He hadn't at all planned to do so, of course. In the sixteen months since he'd returned from his exile—from his Hunt, as he and John had agreed to term it—his tendency towards high emotion, both positive and negative, had become exponentially less predictable. Most of that centred around John and occurred in his presence, which was certainly to be expected, and in those instances it was generally acceptable. But when John himself was the source of upset, and was neither available nor suitable to approach with such problems, Sherlock usually pushed those feelings mercilessly inwards. It rarely occurred to him to do otherwise...yet he _did_ trust Lestrade.

He knew that trust was surely a function of their years of acquaintance, and that the respect he accorded the DI as a colleague was justified in measurable terms. Even so, he sensed that there was more to their relationship than the older man's obviously paternal attachment to him, and the mutual comfort of long familiarity. There were few in Sherlock's life to serve as a measure for comparison, and he was frankly glad of it...but Lestrade's manner around him sometimes raised the possibility that their memories stood on unequal footing.

_My instinctive reactions to him, especially today, seem a probable confirmation. Interesting._

The notion of searching Lestrade's cluttered, lamp-lit office within his Mind Palace rose up in response to his musings, but Sherlock dismissed it almost immediately. If something hidden there might give clues to things he'd deleted...well, there was surely a reason for such deletions in the first place. Sherlock knew better than to second-guess his own decisions, even when he couldn't remember making them.

No; it was enough to accept the hypothesis that Lestrade knew things he no longer did, and somehow felt all the more attached to him as a consequence. It was enough to allow Lestrade's presence to be an occasional, if seldom utilised, comfort—to open himself, trusting and vulnerable, and to receive sincere advice in return.

Lestrade had made one or two attempts to provide such advice, even after the change in subject. Most notably, he'd suggested, "I think we'll be better off, all three of us, once we can put that night behind us. Pack it away somewhere, with all the other stuff we've survived, yeh?"

Sherlock knew Lestrade hadn't meant the idea literally—hardly possible, with a disorganised, pedestrian mind such as his. But Sherlock already had a room of doors, eleven metal and twenty-seven wood: unpleasant experiences he'd now made a promise never to delete, shut tightly away where they would cause the least possible harm.

It wouldn't be illogical, certainly, to add another one.

 

\-----

 


	7. JOHN: Don't Look Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pleasant afternoon of work at the surgery, and a casual conversation with a friend who cares: John never expected it could lead to finding himself confronted with such a distressing truth.

  
**7\. JOHN: Don't Look Down**  
_22 November 2015_

.

 

Sarah Sawyer ran her little Marylebone clinic like the mother of a mildly dysfunctional family, or perhaps like a well-meaning young aunt with pockets full of sweets.

Her handful of staff got along well, for the most part, and the usually steady stream of patients seemed happy enough with their treatment. However, her approach to scheduling and office policy was more personally tailored and flexible than most—"offbeat" might be the most flattering of the terms given Sarah's establishment, by more conventional medical professionals. John was one of three rotating GPs who handled the surgery's load in addition to Dr Sawyer, who worked slightly over full-time hours herself; between John, Dr Bressler and Dr Forsythe, there was always some wiggle room in the schedule. John wasn't the only one of them who took advantage of it, although he was likely the only one who undertook such demanding activities in his off hours.

Had Sarah been more strait-laced in her policies from the start, John was well aware that he wouldn't have kept his employment there for more than a few days. Dozing off on the job was generally frowned upon, after all. She wouldn't have dated him, either, or at the very _least_ she could easily have fired him after their breakup, and would've been well within her rights to do so. (That bloody New Zealand holiday had been an utter cock-up, after all. Really, John remained amazed that he'd even rated polite _greeting_ from her, since, never mind keeping his job.) And after everything in John's life had fallen apart—after he'd spent over a year in mourning and then shambled back into her surgery, severely sleep-deprived and desperate for a way to make some use of himself? She'd had no good reason to hire him back; any doctor with a modicum of common sense would have turned John away, at that point. Sarah had merely asked him to wait two more months to get himself together before coming in for his first shift.

Sherlock didn't quite have a clear grasp on exactly how lucky John was to have Sarah as his boss. He seemed to take for granted the flexibility it afforded—or, at the very least, he seemed unable to digest the concept of John's desire to earn a modest income on his own, outside of their joint work.

As for John, he sternly reminded himself of his good fortune, every time a call came in that he couldn't ignore. Whenever a day off was interrupted by word of a sudden schedule change, or a four hour shift was stretched to eight at the last minute, he considered how Sarah practically bent over backwards to accommodate his needs at the slightest word. Lestrade need only text in the middle of an examination, and by the time John's next waiting patient had gone, his remaining appointments would be reshuffled and Bressler or Forsythe would be on their way in. Sherlock pouted imperiously whenever Sarah's on-the-fly scheduling inconvenienced _him_ , of course, but he received the benefits of it without a second thought, leaving John to repeat his silent mantra of gratitude as he followed along.

If, sometimes, John felt grateful to be on his way off to an extra shift at work, without having to remind himself of the reasons why...well, that couldn't _possibly_ be a bad thing.

 

.

 

"There you are, Mrs Borden," John said, passing a prescription across his desk. "Mind you get that filled as soon as you can, and call in for another appointment if it doesn't clear up in three weeks."

"Thank you, Doctor. I'll have my nephew take me to get it first thing tomorrow." The older woman levered herself carefully up from her seat, thanking him a few more times for good measure as she gathered up her coat and handbag. The door to John's small office opened just as Mrs Borden reached it; Sarah courteously held it for his patient to pass, then slipped inside and closed it behind her, with a hasty glance over her shoulder.

John smiled and bent to replace a file in his drawer. "Fancy meeting you here," he deadpanned.

"Sorry! Had to get away," Sarah replied, a little breathlessly. "Jenny won't give me a moment's peace; all she wants to do is natter on about how I should consider hiring her brother's new business for our cleaning contract. It's driving me _spare_. You don't have another one for twenty minutes—mind if I eat in here?"

"You're the boss."

"Come to think of it, I _am_ , aren't I?" She seated herself, pulling a wrapped sandwich from her small shoulder bag, and they grinned together.

"Well, aside from Ms Lipton making a nuisance of herself, how's your day been?" asked John, leaning back in his chair contentedly.

"Ah, the usual. Stress and bother. I've been trying to get those damned compliance reports together, today, but now...I'm considering taking the rest of your appointments myself, just to stay out of the line of sight of the reception desk."

He tilted his head. "If you really want to handle patients today, why don't you just take Barry's? You don't have to worry about me."

"Are you sure, John? You're the one who had today off."

"And Sherlock could get a new case, tomorrow, and then you'll have to drag either Barry or Robin in anyway. Look, I know I deserve to be here."

A corner of her mouth lifted, and she brushed a stray tendril of honey-brown hair from her face as she swallowed a bite of her late lunch; John experienced a surreal flashback to the affectionately awkward days of their brief relationship. He wouldn't trade what he'd ended up with for anything in the world, but she was an undeniably lovely woman, and never more so than when she was about to say something knowing and a bit naughty.

What she chose to say this time was: "How are you and Sherlock, then?"

John blinked, feeling an immediate touch of heat at the tips of his ears. "Um."

Sarah knew, of course. John had confessed it to her not long after Sherlock's demonstrative reveal to Scotland Yard that June, and while she hadn't already guessed, she'd been unsurprised—almost annoyingly so. Still, John hadn't divulged all that much detail since then about the nature of his partnership with Sherlock; it had always felt as if that would be overstepping one invisible line too many.

"We're fine," he managed, deliberately stilling restless hands. "Things are good. Very good."

"I'm glad to hear it. I know you don't talk about him here often—and I get that—but I suspect he _must_ be a bit difficult at times?"

"He really hasn't been," John responded honestly. "We're getting along great, actually. He hasn't started a ridiculous fight or thrown himself into a sulk for months!"

"Impressive! Well, if anyone was ever going to be able to tame that man, it could only be someone with your particular brand of determination."

"I...actually can't tell if there's supposed to be a compliment to either of us, in there. _Tame_? Really? Like he's some sort of wild, savage beast?"

"Your words, John, not mine," she threw back, then laughed lightly at the look on his face. "Yeah, all right, not 'tame', maybe...make him less prickly?"

"Mm. Sherlock _is_ rather like an ornamental cactus at times, I suppose," he mused, tapping a finger against his lips comically.

Laughing again, Sarah balled up her sandwich wrapper and stood. "Well, I suppose it's time to brave the front desk once more. I'll go talk to Barry about having him leave early, though, I think."

"Too bad you can't just send Jenny home."

"Well, after today we've got Yvonne in 'til Thursday. Maybe Jenny will get her head on straight before she comes back to work."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed, for your sake," John grinned.

Sarah looked back at him on her way out. "I'm glad I called you in, John. It's nice to see you so happy to be here."

He stared at the closed door after she left, stunned and thoughtful, until Jenny buzzed from the front and reminded him it was time to call in his next patient.

 

.

 

John's last appointment of the day was a cancellation. Despite this, the sun was already below the horizon when he left the clinic; the twilight was darkened by burgeoning clouds, but he made no move to hail a cab. Instead, he thrust his hands into his pockets and started off on foot. Since his chat with Sarah, he'd felt as if a thick fog had wrapped around his head. He'd been distracted and pensive as he'd seen to his handful of remaining patients, but ultimately unsure why. Now, he spurred himself to a vigorous walking pace, deliberately just short of a jog. He breathed deep and fast in the brisk autumn air, willing the cobwebs away, trying to pin down the elusive thought that had caught him in its grip earlier.

Whatever it was, he already knew it had to do with Sherlock. Something in that casual little chat with Sarah, something John had said that had gnawed at him afterwards...something that he'd immediately wanted to cover over, and push out of his mind...

 _I wasn't lying,_ he told himself, chewing at his lower lip as he strode on. _Or was it what she said?_

John thought back on Sherlock's face at the restaurant, when Sarah's text message had come. Although there had been an unmistakable flash of disappointment and anger, it had been quickly banished. He'd put up no argument, graciously staying behind to pay their check; he'd even offered a smile and a small wave through the window, as John had opened the door to his cab.

But now, John remembered the small but distinct rush of relief he'd felt, as that cab had pulled away to take him to work.

He stumbled a little on the smooth pavement, and caught his breath in an unpleasant hitch as the pieces began to fit together all at once.

 _Things are good,_ he'd answered Sarah. _Very good._

And they _were._ A year ago, if anyone had tried to tell him that this would be the state of things, he'd have laughed in their face. And even after the game-changing events in Chicago, every move John had made for months had felt like a tightrope act.

But lately? Gone was the skittish cat, for the most part—Sherlock had grown comfortable with John's attentions, now, as long as they remained relatively constant. Between them, they enjoyed frequent contact, quietly murmured endearments, polite consistency. They ate together, and slept in the same bed; they worked cases when cases presented themselves. On John's days off, when there wasn't a case, their habit of lazing about in the bedroom—or, sometimes, the sitting room—persisted. They also made a point of discussing a few of Sherlock's Hunt stories each week in the continuing effort to resolve those discomforts between them, although their frequency and urgency had begun to drop off. Occasionally (on the average of once every nine evenings, although John tried hard not to think about the fact that it might be a specifically calculated frequency), Sherlock offered a physical encounter, generally one of a handful of types that they'd found satisfied both of their needs adequately. John couldn't complain.

Could he?

No.

Truly, what _was_ there to complain about? From an objective point of view, there was no problem _anywhere_ in the situation. Mrs Hudson was still cooing over them and bringing them surplus baked goods at every opportunity. The personnel at Scotland Yard had calmed the majority of their disbelieving squawking, and Sally seemed to have positioned herself as their staunch defender; _that_ role reversal had been even more surprising to John than her stress-induced bonding with Sherlock in October. Even Mycroft had come around to a restrained, quietly supportive attitude, which John thought was perhaps as close to the expression of outright approval as he could physically manage.

He and Sherlock weren't really talking much at all about the mechanics of their relationship. They'd achieved a beautiful sort of equilibrium, an ebbing and swelling tide of domestic contentment that had carried them through months of pleasant days and nights. There seemed to be a mutual understanding at play, the two lists upon which they'd tacitly agreed: _these are the things that John likes. These are the things that Sherlock likes._ Likewise, there was a list of _things that Sherlock doesn't like_ which were avoided, cleanly, without fuss or unnecessary discussion. It was no hardship, certainly.

At home, their private routine was truly pleasant. John had told Sarah that they'd had no major arguments in months, and it was true. What bickering there was generally centred over the most minor incidents: a misplaced petri dish, a mess left in the bath, a tactless observation here and there. John's temper had been a bit short just lately, admittedly—but he knew that wasn't really Sherlock's fault. Sherlock never let anything escalate beyond the level of mild snappishness, anymore, on his end of the equation.

John had so far treated this sensation like a shadow at the corner of his eye, resolutely ignoring it, but now...he was starting to realise where his aimless anger was originating.

Normalcy was beginning to _itch_ beneath his skin.

The implications were becoming clearer with every step he took, but John was afraid to continue studying his vague feeling of discontent. He'd spent so long convincing himself that simply having _this_ would be more than enough—and he'd worked so hard to reassure Sherlock of the same, once it had become unexpected reality—that the thought of proving himself wrong was almost too much to bear. He began to fear that the restlessness would make itself apparent to his partner, showing through his skin like a bruise, contaminating his every word and action. The evidence would surely be obvious, if John allowed these thoughts to gain purchase.

John couldn't lose what he'd built. Life with Sherlock—love, with Sherlock—was _good._

And so he resolved to hold his tongue.

 

.

 

When John reached 221 and stepped inside, he found Sherlock waiting at the upper landing, holding a cup of tea.

"How was work?"

"Tedious, but not bad," John answered, smiling tiredly as he climbed the stairs. "Which I'm sure you already know."

Sherlock leaned down and placed a precise, gentle kiss on the wind-reddened apple of John's cheek, then stepped back to allow him space to remove his coat. As soon as it was hung, he pressed the mug into John's chilled hands. "Mm. Yes, of course, let's see. One case of eczema, two patients with respiratory ailments, at least two whose complaints were imagined...and, ah—you were called upon to stitch one minor wound, probably a kitchen accident. All in all, boring enough to spur you into returning home on foot."

John's smile widened, and he dipped it into the steam of the tea Sherlock had made him. "Had to get my blood pumping," he agreed.

"There are other ways to do that."

" _Well_ , now. Is that meant to be an offer, love?"

"If you like," Sherlock replied, his voice lowering into a suggestive rumble. He drew John to sit the sofa, then dropped gracefully to one knee, unlacing his shoes with long, nimble fingers.

John watched Sherlock's dark curls dip low in front of him, struck by a surge of affection—a near-desperate need to give himself up to enjoyment, to accept the happiness his partner offered and forget his worries.

A tiny voice in the back of his head counted backwards on the calendar from nine, but he ignored it as he took Sherlock's hand.

 

\-----

 


	8. GREG: The Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is counting down the days until he's reunited with his love; in the meantime, he's got to solidify his ties to the family she's leaving behind.

  
**8\. GREG: The Waiting Game**  
_26 November 2015_

.

 

"Honey, I'm home," Greg called out softly to nobody, as he opened the door to his flat. For just a moment, he could imagine a response echoing down the stairs, or perhaps from the back room.

_Just practicing for the rest of my life,_ he grinned, shucking his coat. Three weeks, that was all that remained, and then that answering voice would be a reality. And if those three weeks managed to pass as easily and quickly as this Thursday had done, it would surely feel like no time at all. Greg knew the aphorism about not wishing his life away, but in this case he felt no compunction about hoping for the best. If skipping ahead to the good parts wasn't actually possible, at least he could relish the knowledge that they were coming ever closer.

Today's work had gone smoothly, hours slipping past amongst the fast-moving details of a routine but engaging murder investigation, closed in a clean sweep. There were times when handling such a simple case felt like a let-down, but this one had struck the perfect balance: each piece had fit into place tidily, his team had split and regrouped with perfect coordination, and he and Sally had worked together as if they'd shared one mind.

The only tarnish marring the shine on his perfect day was not having Anna here to share it with—but he could get the next best thing.

Greg made a beeline to the stacks of boxes that remained against the hallway wall. After a protracted effort early in the week, most of his own things had at last found suitable homes, including the mass of collected memorabilia he'd kept packed away in his crowded spare room at the old flat. He'd been receiving new packages from the States in a steady stream over the past few weeks; as he'd told Sherlock just a few days ago, he'd been spacing them out, holding back on the impulse to dig into each one the minute he brought it inside. _This_ was exactly why.

Having chosen a likely candidate from the pile, Greg sat on the sofa to break its seals, smiling in anticipation. At the same time, he pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket. It was just past eight thirty; as he dialled he made the six-hour calculation that had become second nature, then adjusted it to five, remembering that Anna had driven back to her hometown the day before.

The box he'd chosen turned out to be mostly filled with clothing, and he groped idly through it for anything more solid while the phone rang at his ear. His call connected just as he pulled a gold-embossed photo album into his lap.

"Hi there." Anna's voice was warm and relaxed, and backed by the noise of other voices and laughter.

"Hello, love. Not a bad time, I hope?" he asked, remembering the friendly chaos that had reigned in the Faber family home the previous Christmas.

"No, everyone's here, but dinner won't be for at least an hour and a half yet. I'm glad you called—yes, Mom, it's Greg. I'll be right back, okay? Yeah—so, how did work go?"

"It was a great day, really!" Mindful of the busy atmosphere on the other end of the line, he summarised the case and its satisfying conclusion as he flipped through the pages of old photographs. The album was one he'd sat and perused with Anna's narration, during his Chicago visit, and he imagined her curled on the seat beside him to listen.

Anna laughed, pleased, when he reached the end of the brief tale. Before she could get more than a few words into the recap of her own day so far, someone interrupted her, and she spoke away from the phone for a moment.

"All right, yes," she was saying to someone as she came back to him. "Honey, we're going to have to do the phone-passing thing for a while before I get you all to myself. Do you mind?"

"No, 'course not! Pass me around, I'm happy to talk to everyone."

A moment later, Anna's phone was in the hands of her niece. " _Hi_ ," Becky exclaimed excitedly, "hold on, can't talk out here, Kyle's bein' _loud_..."

The noise in the background faded quickly away, followed by the sound of a door slamming, and Greg grinned. Obviously she'd run off to talk to him somewhere private: probably Charlotte's bedroom, judging by how fast she'd gotten there.

For a minute or two, Greg couldn't have fit a word in edgewise if he'd tried, but he was quite happy to listen to the energetic nine-year-old chatter on. She thanked him for his continued monthly postcards, then told him about her grandmother's dinner menu, and the Disney movie she'd been watching with Kyle, and how good the smells were in the kitchen...

"So what do _you_ do for Thanksgiving?" she asked, pausing for breath at last.

Greg chuckled. "Well, _nothing_ really..."

"Oh. Oh, _yeah_! I forgot, duh," she giggled, but then got serious. "At Thanksgiving I usually stay in Seattle with Mommy and Aunt Monica. But _this_ year Aunt Anna won't be _here_ for Christmas, so Daddy brought me now..."

"I'm sure Anna's very pleased that she still gets to visit with you."

"Yeah. Me too. But Grandma isn't happy 'bout Christmas. Now I've gotta go stay with Mommy for that, see?"

"Ah. I'm sorry about that, Becks. Things'll be a little different, from now on—but I know your Aunt Anna will be in Ohio, next Christmas."

"And _you_ will, too, right?"

"I will, poppet. And we'll be there every other year for Christmas, from here on out, I promise."

Becky was quiet for a moment; Greg smiled, remembering the way she screwed her mouth to one side and tugged at her fine blond hair when she was thinking seriously about something. At last she spoke decisively. "Okay. That's a good compromise."

He laughed in relief, just as he heard a voice in the background, intruding on the girl's sanctuary.

"Oh, I gotta go, Uncle Ryan wants to talk to you now—Hey Uncle Greg?"

"Yeah?" He squeaked a little on the response, his throat unexpectedly tight, but Becky didn't seem to notice.

"I'm really glad Aunt Anna met you."

 

.

 

Chatting with Anna's youngest brother was far less emotionally affecting. They started with jovial small talk, during which Ryan gave him the rundown on the first of the day's two American football games, and he made a valiant attempt to follow along. The second game was well underway, and from the sounds of things, Justin was quite invested in its outcome; periodically, a hoot or shout of excitement interrupted them, and if the action was good enough, Ryan joined in, too.

"So Mandy talked to the hospital admin about it, and they're going to let her reserve time off work. Have you decided what month, yet?"

"It's got to be April, as far as we can tell," Greg answered. "Visa laws. We have to do it within a certain amount of time after she enters the country, and that'll be the week of Christmas, so... Early April, I should think. First or second Saturday."

"Great, that works for us—go, go, c'mon, _go, yeeeaah_!" A few seconds of loud celebration were shared between the brothers, then Ryan said, "Justin. First two weeks of April, think Tiff will be cool?"

He must have been passing the phone across as he said it; Justin's deeper voice came on the line next. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Becky will be ecstatic to get time out of school. I can get a discount through my company, I'll book the flights for all of us together. Email me the date as soon as you lock it down, okay?"

"Will do."

"Cool. And Greg...congratulations, man."

 

.

 

The next hand-off put Anna's mobile into Amanda's hands, for a minute or two of genial pleasantries plus a short conversation with Kyle. The five-year-old wasn't in the most cooperative of moods, though; after an adorable thirty seconds or so of halting answers to prompts, his mother decided it was time to move on.

"I'll take the phone in to Mom, I'm sure she's waiting to talk to you," she said, but Kyle would hear none of it.

" _No_ ," he insisted, "no, I wanna!"

"What's that, lad?" Greg asked.

"I wanna take it! Me, _me_!"

Amanda laughed. "You want to take it? Okay, slugger, go on. Go give the phone to Grandma in the kitchen, all right?"

The child was released, and a strange series of incidental noises followed as he made a slightly meandering progress towards his goal. Occasionally he said or sang something mostly incomprehensible, and at least once he dropped the phone entirely.

While he waited, amused, Greg returned his attention to the album in his lap, lingering on a picture that showed the whole family. In this shot, Ryan seemed about the age that his son was now, which meant Anna, the eldest, was roughly twelve; Greg studied the smiling faces of their parents behind them, realising that they'd posed for this shot less than a year before Peter's fatal car accident.

_Charlotte really held that family together,_ he thought.

Greg suddenly found himself worrying about an aspect of things that hadn't really troubled him as of yet. This whole holiday thing—was Mrs Faber really as unhappy about it as Anna and Becky both seemed to think? Was he risking getting off on the wrong foot with his soon-to-be mother-in-law, right from the start?

_Mother-in-law._ He repeated the words silently, feeling the weight of the concept slide down into his gut. His only experience in that arena, thus far, had been Priscilla Kandless: snobbish, controlling and possessed of an incredible capacity for disapproval. Directly or indirectly, the pressures and expectations she'd placed on her daughter—and later, her unwanted son-in-law—had surely lain behind both the genesis and destruction of Greg's relationship with Tracy.

Obviously, Charlotte Faber wasn't cut from the same cloth. Everything he knew of her so far made her out to have a heart of gold...but he'd been in her presence less than a week, nearly a year ago, and now he was luring her only daughter out of the country! No mother could be blamed for a bit of protective resentment, in a situation like this.

Greg knew quite well how small hurts could grow and fester with time and distance. Bringing Anna to live here would give her mother a surfeit of both...

"Oh, dear, what's this?"

Hearing the words startled Greg back to reality. Caught up in his thoughts, he hadn't even noticed when the phone at his ear had gone quiet. "Hello, I'm still here," he said, a little sheepishly.

"Our little troublemaker must have lost track somewhere," Charlotte chuckled. "He left you on the kitchen chair; I almost sat on the phone! How are you, Greg?"

"I'm all right. Can't complain, you know. Work's been good, and the new flat's getting settled..." He trailed off, feeling awkward.

"Yes, Anna showed me some of the photos you sent her when you were moving in. It looks nice and spacious."

"It is. And everything's in good order, there won't be anything lacking. I haven't done it _all_ up, of course—wanted to leave room for changes—ah, but it looks a lot better now, furnished. More welcoming. I should've thought to send pictures this week."

There was something in the older woman's voice—appraisal, or amusement at his nervous babbling? He couldn't quite get a read on it, but he thought she sounded fairly pointed as she replied, "I'm sure the boys and I will start getting plenty of photographs in a few weeks. Won't we?"

"Yes, of course! We'll be in touch over Christmas. I mean, not that we'll be _out_ of touch, otherwise!" _Jesus, Greg, get a grip,_ he told himself; he rose from the sofa and slipped Anna's photo album onto a shelf on his way to the kitchen.

"Well, it's all quite exciting, isn't it?" asked Charlotte. There was that unidentifiable lilt in her voice, again. He wished he were there in person; he'd always been far better at reading people when he could watch their faces.

"Oh, yes." Greg grabbed a beer from the fridge but let it chill his palm, unopened. "I can hardly wait," he blurted, biting his lip in consternation as soon as the words were out—had that sounded like gloating?

"So much to look forward to," she murmured absently. A short silence followed; before Greg could find more to say, she cleared her throat, and her next words were bright and energetic. "Well, the turkey won't baste itself, and it's high time I get my sweet potatoes started! I'll get you to Anna now; she's probably eager to have you back. You take good care of yourself, Greg, all right?"

"I will, I promise! You know, Mrs Faber, I expect I'll be dreaming of your cooking tonight; I know exactly what a fantastic meal I'm missing out on."

"And you know exactly how to sweet-talk an old woman. Flatterer."

"Now, now, it's not flattery if it's true..."

"Anna! Get in here and take this honey-tongued darling off my hands, before I decide to emigrate! ...Goodnight, Greg."

"Goodnight," he returned with a grin; as Anna's voice approached in the background, he finally cracked open his bottle, entirely relieved to have turned the conversation around.

 

.

 

Greg was pleased to get a few more minutes to speak with Anna, after having run the gauntlet of her family, but she was clearly distracted by the gathering. As dinnertime grew nearer, the children were becoming antsy and wild. Adorable though it was, by the time they'd suffered their fourth loud interruption they were both ready to give it up for the night.

"It's only a matter of time before Mom wants me to help her with something, anyway," Anna sighed. "I should really go..."

"It's okay. I know it's important to your family, spending this time with you. Don't worry about me, love; you and I, we'll have all the time in the world, soon enough." He made a little face around a swig of his beer—he hadn't intended such a sappy, cliché line—but she didn't make a joke of it.

"Miss you, _so_ much," she murmured into the phone, her voice dropping into a low, breathy purr.

It sent an instant electric thrill down through his body, and he let out a quiet groan. "God, _Anna_." Suddenly he found himself wishing away the next three weeks for decidedly less romantic reasons. "Go," he managed, " _go_ , have a good evening. We'll talk—I'll probably work late tomorrow, god, maybe Saturday? Can I call then?"

"If you can wait that long...mm, or maybe I'll just text you, while you're at work..."

Greg made a strangled sound of utter frustration mingled with panic, and she laughed, apologetic.

"Okay, sorry, I have to hang up, now! Three weeks, baby, just three...more...weeks."

" _Love_ you," he rasped; when the call disconnected he immediately chugged what remained in the bottle.

A more impulsive man might have been driven to retire for the evening, to take the situation in hand. It was tempting...but it was also barely past nine, and he knew he still carried too much restless energy from his day to be truly satisfied with what he could do on his own. Expelling a long, loud breath, Greg dragged fingers through his hair and willed himself to calm.

_Surely I can get a little more done, here, before I go to bed,_ he thought.

Returning to the hallway, he surveyed the boxes. If he sorted out just _one_ more at least, he'd be pleased enough...and _there_ was a small one, tucked against the wall; he might as well make it an easy goal.

The box he grabbed was far smaller than all the others Anna had sent him, and when he brought it out into the light he saw that it lacked the international labelling to which he'd become accustomed. Its return address had been water-damaged beyond legibility; only a piece of packing tape had protected his own name and address from a similar fate.

Greg's interest turned to mild confusion as he pulled a single item from the box. Unwrapping it revealed a figurine of coloured resin, about a handspan tall: an old stone church, complete with a quaint tower and round-arched windows. It was beautifully detailed; the moss-covered roof over the nave, the contrasting patterns of the stonework, and the bright blue of the doors had all been meticulously painted by hand.

_Maybe Anna directed an online purchase to the flat,_ he surmised, turning the figure to study its intricate brushwork. It wouldn't be the first time, if so; she'd had her last few orders of specialty threads and other embroidery supplies delivered straight to him, even before he'd moved. This little church didn't seem quite her style, but it was beautiful in its own way—and as much as he thought he'd got a handle on her tastes, she was still surprising him.

_Or, maybe it isn't from Anna, but it's for her? For us?_ There was no note, or receipt—he checked the box again—but he'd sent gag gifts to his own sister-in-law before without a message. Perhaps one of her friends had begged the address from her, and sent this as a cheeky reminder of their upcoming wedding?

If that was the case, it was an amusingly inappropriate choice of gift. Anyone who knew Anna well would surely not expect her to plan a church wedding; her first had taken place in a sunny reception hall with a panoramic view overlooking a scenic state park. And as for Greg himself—well, he still tended towards blasphemy in his cursing like many a copper, but he hadn't truly _believed_ since the late eighties.

"It is pretty, though, isn't it," he murmured.

After a moment's thought, Greg walked across to his mother's tall curio shelves and tucked the figurine behind a little grouping of squat millefiori glass paperweights, giving the effect of a hilly churchyard blooming with colourful flowers. Satisfied, he scooped up the open box of clothing on the sofa and took it upstairs to sort it out.

 

\-----

 


	9. SHERLOCK: Obscure Variables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hasn't got the time for a silly welcome outing, this evening. The cold case he's finally ready to revisit is tied deeply into the history of his own heart.

  
**9\. SHERLOCK: Obscure Variables**   
_18 December 2015_

.

 

"Sherlock?"

"...Mm?" Sherlock didn't look up from the spread of graph paper in front of him. His eyes followed the precise movement of his pen, scribing a careful line through his plot of data points one by one; the infinitesimal spread of liquid black into the paper's fine fibres, almost mesmerising, its subtle variance dependent upon the speed and controlled constancy of his movement...

"Did you hear me?"

He felt one corner of his mouth twitching downwards and stilled it, steadying his focus through the end of the line.

_Perfect._

Straightening in the seat, he tilted his head to study his handiwork. "Did you say something?" he asked at last.

John's voice held an edge of annoyance, but it was still fond: within acceptable parameters. "I _said_ , you're going to need to get changed, so you should really go do that, now."

"Changed? Whatever for?"

"Well, look at yourself! You're still wearing the T-shirt you slept in, and the trousers you put on this morning are the ones you spilled bleach on last month. Surely you aren't planning on going out in public like that."

"I wasn't aware that I _was_ going out." Sherlock capped his pen and stood, glancing blithely down at the ruined trousers visible beneath the hem of his dressing gown. "These were still on the top of the basket, and they're warmer than my pyjama bottoms anyway." He turned his gaze up to John just in time to witness an eye-roll of fairly epic proportions.

"Firstly: if you're cold, turn up the heating. Or lay a fire, if you like. I know you prefer that all the mundane details of actual human existence simply be dealt with on your behalf, but sometimes you've just got to take initiative. Secondly: you _know_ we're going along with Greg to the airport today. You were there when I promised to go, and I've mentioned it at least four times since!"

"Ah. Well, there's your mistake, John. _You_ promised to go. I, however, did no such thing," he pointed out calmly.

John was stunned speechless for a moment; his crossed arms slipped apart and dropped to his sides. After a few slow, disbelieving blinks, he took a different tack. "You do know why we're _going_ to the airport, right?"

_He assumes I've forgotten? Even if I had, I could deduce it with a single glance._ Sherlock stifled a sigh at the tedious question, instead keeping his response light and pleasantly even. "Of course I do, John."

"Anna's your friend. I mean—you do consider her your friend, don't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"You _suppose_ —? Right, okay, you know what, I'm not going to pretend that makes any sense to me. I'll just leave you to it, shall I?" With these words, John gestured vaguely at the wall above the sofa, which Sherlock had spent the morning gradually adorning with papers and photographs.

"You believe me to be slighting her," Sherlock stated, stepping closer.

"No, I know you are. And it's not just her, it's Greg! He asked. If 'friend' isn't an accurate term for Anna, in your opinion, I've got no idea what you consider _him_ to be?"

Sherlock declined to take the obvious bait. It wasn't a topic that warranted discussion, at the moment. Lestrade was what Lestrade was...and he'd already decided that was good enough. Concrete terms were superfluous.

"I've got no objection to your going without me," he told John instead, gauging his tone based on its resonance against the hearth wall. _Be firm, but not so much that you echo sharply. Soften your edges,_ he reminded himself as he continued, "You'll likely find her flight a bit delayed, but it'll be a pleasant opportunity for you and Lestrade to chat, and you haven't had much time for that lately. Then, of course, they'll invite you along for dinner. You needn't worry about me; I expect I'll remain focused on this until at least ten. Stay out as long as you like; enjoy yourself."

John's face cycled through five distinct permutations of emotion before settling on something straddling tenderness and sympathy. "Oh, Sherlock," he said softly, "you don't need to leave yourself out. I know I make a point of meeting up with Greg on my own regularly, but I don't make you stay home so that I can have a good time _without_ you."

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "That's not what I think, at all! Don't be ridiculous."

"Then why? Greg wants you there, I want you there, Anna will be thrilled to see you. And I think you're pleased she's coming back, too. Besides, it's not as if you're on a case right now. You pulled all this stuff out of a box under the bed, yesterday; whatever it is, it can't possibly be time sensitive?"

"The crime in question is over twelve years old. Age may diminish its urgency, but never its importance. And before you argue that setting aside my work for a few hours would have no ill consequences...in this case, you're entirely correct. If I wasn't busy with this, however, I _still_ wouldn't go; just save your breath, John."

A quiet warning klaxon sounded in Sherlock's mind as he finished his sentence. He saw the downwards twitch of the brow, and the clenching jaw; his own snapped closed. Had he let his irritation slip out too obviously?

_Stop, pull back, before you take this too far..._

Thankfully, it appeared that John had decided to overlook the snappish remark—or, at least, he hadn't yet been provoked to outright anger. It seemed a near thing, though, judging by the movements of his fingers.

Shaken, Sherlock closed the distance between them, freely allowing his face to convey the earnest truth of his next words. "I simply don't want to _go_ , today. You and Lestrade will make a fine welcome, without me sulking about being unsociable and boorish. It's better this way, John, don't you see?"

Another flash of feeling crossed his partner's features, swinging once more towards fond affection, and Sherlock experienced a momentary flush of relief. For a man so complex and difficult to understand, John really had an incredibly expressive face, continually alive with clues and warnings; it was a boon for which Sherlock was thankful every day. It had so far allowed him to navigate the murky, hazard-filled waters of their relationship with at least partial success.

"Well," said John, reaching out to finger the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown, "if you're sure I can't convince you to come along..."

"I'm absolutely certain."

"Then I suppose I can make your excuses to Greg," he conceded, smiling thinly, and drew him down for a kiss.

 

.

 

**John explained why you aren't coming. It's fine, I guess, but I'm sure Anna will miss you. Hope you'll make time to come and see her soon. -GL**

**Enjoy your evening. -SH**

Sherlock slipped the phone back into his pocket, frowning. The reply he'd sent had been distinctly ill-matched to the message he'd received, but he'd had to expend considerable effort not to write something unpleasant. If Lestrade took this as a moderately confusing dismissal, at least he was unlikely to find it insulting.

_Not that I have many qualms about insulting him,_ he thought. _That's often a rewarding pastime in itself..._

Shrugging, he turned to retrieve the paper chart he'd drawn. He stepped up onto the sofa to pin it neatly into place, then sat in the centre of the coffee table to gaze thoughtfully at the wall. His morning's results joined a similar graph, depicting data from an earlier iteration of this same experiment—originally undertaken in the late spring of 2010.

Sherlock had devised it, then, as a possible means to shed light on a particularly opaque cold case of Lestrade's...but his work at that time had been hindered by distraction. When John had run off to New Zealand with Sarah Sawyer, Sherlock had been left alone for two weeks. Dissatisfied with the thought of taking small cases by himself, bored and dispirited without their stimulation, and unsettled by the awkward tension that had built up in the fortnight following the incident with Moriarty at the pool, Sherlock had practically begged Lestrade for a worthy puzzle to solve. The case he'd received, as it turned out, _had_ been worthy...but Sherlock himself had not.

In hindsight, the explanation for his discomfiture was clear. He'd convinced himself, at the time, that his rapidly increasing fixation on John Watson was a fluke: a product of unaccustomed proximity, and of the sudden profusion of raw data that came with sharing close quarters. Though his esteem for John had grown over the course of the following year—becoming a distraction so great after his exile that it had eventually required a new definition and a full re-evaluation of his own desires—at that early stage it had been manageable, excusable.

But Sherlock had botched his trials, so thoroughly that he hadn't realised the extent of it until much later. He'd miscounted at least one of the bacteria cultures while imagining what John would say about the mess in the kitchen. He'd collected two of the timed samples late, inadvertently skewing their results because he'd been wondering whether Sarah might be better-suited to John than had originally been apparent. He'd even managed to make a mathematical error while calculating the rate of decay, distracted by contemplation of the time difference and when it might be acceptable to text. (Unforgivable. Mummy would have been appalled.)

The theory he'd posited might well have explained the strange findings in the girls' blood tests, and made their times of death clear enough to pinpoint the suspect—but when the results had entirely failed to make sense, he'd been unable to identify his miscalculations, and unable to see any other way to solve the problem. In other words, the killer of Eliza and Justine Runnell continued to enjoy freedom, _to this day_ , because Sherlock hadn't been able to master his emotions! After he'd returned the original case file to Lestrade, muttering a reluctant admission of defeat, Sherlock had thrown his extensive notes and scrawled-upon photocopies into a box, mortifying mistakes and all, and had shoved the whole embarrassment out of sight before John returned from his holiday. There it had remained, for over five years...untouched throughout the turmoil of Moriarty's final gambit, undisturbed during Sherlock's time away, neglected in the year and a half since his return.

Sherlock couldn't pinpoint any particular factor that had motivated him to dredge up the Runnell case again now. If anything, the troubling fact that he had wilfully ignored an unsolved double murder for so long might have made him reluctant to revisit it. But whatever the reason, he'd awoken yesterday with a sudden determination to get to the bottom of it, once and for all.

Perhaps John saw Sherlock's unexpected focus on this—an obvious cold case, and one they'd never before discussed—as a premeditated avoidance tactic. Perhaps he thought that Sherlock had brought it out as a way to deliberately distance himself from other people...or even from John himself.

_Well, that would be a ludicrous assumption! I'm merely unwilling to get worked up over the meaningless frippery of a welcome party,_ he complained silently. _Why should it have been such an issue for him?_

It wasn't as if John had ever been a consistently social man; he made noises about civil niceties, but when left to his own devices he reverted to self-indulgent isolation nearly as consistently as Sherlock did. He had a far-ranging network of acquaintances, whom he inaccurately termed "friends" even though most of them were inattentive at best, and a few were even openly antagonistic. (Those conditions actually seemed to be mutual in a number of cases.) If he'd made himself available to receive adequate emotional support from any of _them_ , he wouldn't have been in such a poor state after returning from Afghanistan, would he?

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched at the thought. It was probably best that he not dwell on alternate paths that would surely have prevented their meeting.

But even limiting his consideration to the very small circle of people who had proven themselves truly important in John's—and Sherlock's—lives, there was no set precedent in regards to the attendance of frivolous celebrations. Invitations to all sorts of events came to them regularly; none of _them_ had resulted in pressure on Sherlock to escort John to the Yarders' pub night, or the surgery's staff luncheon! Even the brunch that Mummy had arranged in honour of Mycroft's forty-fifth birthday had been easy to sidestep, given the right excuses.

Still...Sherlock's insistence upon remaining home, today, had clearly crossed some line in John's expectations. Apparently it wasn't enough to fulfil the myriad concrete requirements of romantic partnership, one on one. Everyone who made any difference (and many who didn't) already knew they were together; belabouring the point served no purpose as far as Sherlock could see—and yet, needless as it was, it appeared that socialising with friends _as a couple_ was something John now expected.

_Unless John is merely placing greater emphasis upon this particular event...not for himself, but for Anna?_

Sherlock turned the new idea over in his mind. It didn't quite jibe with what he'd seen of John's relationship with her...but what if John was actively attempting to encourage Sherlock to develop a stronger bond with her? That could make sense, Sherlock supposed, _if_ one were to presume that in the genesis of a romantic relationship, some underlying aspect of friendship was necessarily lost—complying to some twisted law of conservation of emotional energy—

That was _not_ a pleasant theory.

_John is my best friend. I have no need for a replacement!_

Anna _had_ gained a certain position of importance, that was true. Sherlock felt sure, however, that she viewed their mutual accord with a clear regard similar to his. _She_ understood him well enough to know not to expect such impractical gallantries from him...

Shaking his head to clear it, Sherlock stood and firmly reoriented his concentration to the wall, the data, and the case at hand. He'd given this matter five full minutes of his attention, and now it was time to focus.

 

.

 

John's tread sounded upon the stair approximately five and a half hours later, accompanied by the rustle of a plastic bag. Sherlock looked up from his laptop with a smile: he'd just finished compiling his notes into a format that Lestrade and the magistrates would be able to understand.

"Perfect timing, John! I've solved it!"

"Brilliant! Have you eaten at all, since I left?"

"Hm? No."

"Thought not," John smiled, opening the bag and setting its fragrant contents out on the coffee table. "Here, I brought you a chicken tikka from Raj of India. Go on, it's still warm, I ordered it with our dessert."

While Sherlock ate, he explained the ins and outs of the Runnell girls' case, and how he'd gone about proving their murderer's identity. He didn't get into the details of what had delayed that solution for so long, but John didn't seem overly curious about how it had come to be stored beneath the bed.

"That's amazing," said John instead, exclaiming intermittently from the opposite end of the sofa as he scrolled through the typed notes. "I can't even imagine how you thought of testing _that_. And all from—? _Fantastic_ , love!"

Sherlock basked in the warmth of the praise, but now that the puzzle was done his mind was drawn once more to his earlier concerns. Closing the now-empty takeaway container, he laced his fingers carefully together on his knees.

"You're my best friend, John," he blurted, before he could rethink the words.

John looked up in mild surprise at the non sequitur. "You're mine, too," he responded softly.

"Truly, still?"

"Yeah. 'Course you are. Best friend I ever had. What, did you expect that to change?"

Sherlock shrugged minutely. Conversations like this made his skin crawl, even after all this time. Emotional confessions were simply not his area.

"Sherlock..." John set the laptop aside and scooted closer. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, of course. I'm fine," he answered, the words muted behind barely-moving lips.

At the touch of John's hand on his shoulder, he allowed himself to be drawn sideways into a gentle embrace, his cheek pressed into John's chest, eyes closed as he inhaled: crisp cologne, mingled with notes of spicy dal and candied fennel seeds from dinner.

Warm fingers threaded into his hair and stroked as John murmured, "I love you, Sherlock. You're my best friend in the world, and I love you more than anything. And _nothing_ will change either of those things."

Part of his mind failed to be eased by John's declaration—he still felt he'd missed a critical observation today, somehow—but it was a small part. Infinitesimal, and shrinking rapidly under the gentle onslaught of John's loving touch.

"I love you, too."

It was a rare thing, even now, for Sherlock to return the specific phrase. He preferred either subtlety or eloquence, or wordless gestures of affection, depending on his mood. But it felt right, felt _necessary_ , to speak these words now: words he couldn't have imagined ever giving voice, when last the faces of the Runnell girls looked out from the sitting room wall.

The overwhelming puzzle of his feelings for John had denied those girls their justice, then. It had taken him years, but he'd solved it...and now he'd solved their murders, too.

At _last_.

Snaking his arms around John's torso, Sherlock smiled.

 

\-----

 


	10. ANNA: One Way Ticket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the way, Anna realises that she's said goodbye to her home once and for all. But there's a new one here for her, ready and waiting; stepping into a new life leaves little room for regrets...

  
**10\. ANNA: One Way Ticket**  
_18 December 2015_

.

 

There was no landmark moment.

There couldn't be, literally—Anna was in midair; the landscape of clouds passing outside the window came with no demarcation lines to trace the boundaries of international waters below, and there would be no cabin announcement until the final descent.

So it dawned on her slowly, creeping up on her; like the dry eyes and sore throat brought on by the recycling air, but far less expected. Somewhere between the meal service and the end of the trashy historical romance Liz had stuffed into her carry-on, Anna began to gradually notice a tightness in her stomach and an intermittent restlessness jiggling her knee. It wasn't until the last hour of the long flight—when she looked up from a Sudoku puzzle, briefly stumped, and glanced across to see the sun almost completely gone—that the full import struck her.

 _I'm not on my way to visit, this time—this isn't a vacation,_ she realised. _After today, "visiting" will only ever mean flying in the opposite direction..._

It was thrilling, terrifying, even though it was exactly what she'd wanted. All those days of planning, the careful conversations to hash out little details, the paperwork and the meetings with bankers and the huge outlay of postage...it all came down to this. One last trip, giving up one home for the promise of another.

It felt as if there should be some sort of fanfare. Or, at the very least, a _soundtrack_ , swelling with poignancy to mark the moment.

Anna looked around at the other passengers she could see, tops of heads tipped together in inaudible conversation or propped on little pillows. The woman in the window seat beside her had begun to snore softly.

 _If you want something done, you have to do it yourself,_ she chuckled silently; a minute's fiddling in her bag, and Dean Martin was in her earphones, crooning her into her new life.

 

.

 

The plane touched down about thirty-five minutes late, having been inexplicably delayed in a circling pattern long after the safety belt sign had blinked on. This time, Anna kept a sharp eye out for surprises as she strode purposefully away from the customs line. No warm, strong arms flung themselves about her shoulders, and no startling burr-edged voice husked unexpectedly at her ear—it was admittedly a _bit_ disappointing, but the logical side of her brain was in complete agreement with her bladder, and both were warning vehemently against any sudden moves.

Thankfully, she spotted what she was looking for before her situation became much more urgent. Greg hadn't seen her coming, this time, to intercept her. He stood facing away towards a row of seating, blocking the view to his conversation partner with his broad shoulders as he gestured with a paper coffee cup. Even from a distance, the alert ease of his stance and the distinctive colour of his hair set him easily apart from the milling crowds in the terminal.

 _Oh, perfect,_ Anna grinned, and the thought was only partly pleasure at the opportunity to sneak up on him.

She slowed her steps deliberately, putting effort into preventing her rolling carry-on luggage and bulky handbag from tipping and making noise. As she approached, a fragment of conversation became audible.

"...long enough, it's fine, d'you think?"

"He _never_ brings it up, no worries there."

"Yeah, okay, good. Shouldn't be a problem."

Anna propped her bags up behind her and slipped arms around Greg's waist from behind. "What's a problem?"

"Ah!" Greg dropped the overcoat he'd held slung over his elbow, but managed to turn his startled twitch into a spin within the circle of her arms. The fabric of his shirt dragged against her palms, heated by the lightly padded planes of muscle beneath. "Anna, love, there is _no_ problem. Now that you're here, I'm officially problem-free!"

"Is that so?" she responded, matching his light tone and wide smile.

"Until Monday, at least, when my problem will be leaving for _work_. Mm—" He cut himself off with a kiss, bringing his free hand up to cup her jaw tenderly.

John's clearly amused voice cut through the rapidly rising fog of their distraction. "Take a doctor's advice, and at least try to breathe once in a while, all right?"

Anna pulled back, blushing at the soft _pop_ of their sealed lips breaking apart. "John, hi, sorry about that!"

He shook his head, already stepping behind them to take the pull-handle for Anna's case. "It's no more than I expected," he chuckled. "Welcome back, Anna. Are we ready to get down to the baggage claims, or do you two need another minute?"

"What I _need_ is a restroom," she admitted, "but I think there's one on the way over there..."

She gave John a quick hug and snagged her handbag from his care, and the three of them started off towards the bustling claims hall. When she began to release Greg's hand to detour into the loo, he pulled her back for one fast, searing kiss before letting her go.

Her lips tingled with it, afterwards, and her moving feet seemed to barely graze the floor. Dazed, she looked up into a mirror and met the knowing eyes of a younger woman who'd entered just behind her.

"Congratulations, girl," hummed the stranger, in a tone of frank approval.

 

.

 

By the time Anna rejoined the others near the baggage carousel, it was already in motion, surrounded by a crush of impatient people. Greg had claimed a space for himself near the conveyor; he glanced from his scrutiny of the passing bags to speak over his shoulder as she came near. "Um, I already recognised the two bags with the green trim and passed them to John, but I don't remember what your others are like..."

She stepped closer to peer past him. "Okay—watch for a blue hard-sided one with red tags, and the last one is all black, but I put a gold tie on the handles—there, see it coming around the side?"

"Yep, gotcha!" He darted forward and caught the bulky duffel as it made the turn, dragging it out towards her with a little grunt, and she pulled it aside to where John stood guard over her other luggage. Greg joined them a minute later, rolling her dark blue case along behind him. "So, we're sorry Sherlock didn't make it today," he told her as he paused to don his coat.

Anna looked up from double-checking her bags' zippers, her brows pinched briefly together in confusion. "Well, of _course_ he didn't," she answered. "Why would he do that?"

The two men exchanged an innocently befuddled expression, and it made her laugh.

"How hard did you guys try to make him come along? I hope you didn't _strain_ anything trying to drag him out the door, John!"

"Well, no—I mean, I did want him to be here, but..."

"Aw, well I appreciate the thought. And I'm definitely glad Greg asked _you_ to come; I don't usually travel with this much luggage."

"Extenuating circumstances, yeh? We'll only have to worry about this the once," Greg chuckled, snagging the end of the scarf that poked from the outer pocket of her handbag and deftly arranging it around her neck. "Chilly out there tonight, love. Right, I think we're ready to go! Lead the way, John..."

 

.

 

By the time the three of them had loaded everything into a cab and gotten on their way, Anna was beginning to feel light-headed from hunger, and she didn't hesitate to say so.

"John and I were talking about Indian, before, will that be okay with you?" asked Greg. Her stomach answered for her by way of an enthusiastic growl that was audible even over the noise of the road, and he grinned wide. "There's a great place right up the street from the flat, I figure we can just ride over. Saves time, and keeps us out of the cold."

They kept up a light chatter through the rest of the half-hour ride from Heathrow, and when the cabbie finally pulled to a stop, Anna peered out the window with great interest. She'd seen this building from the outside, just once, but it looked entirely unfamiliar in the dark. The tree at the kerb—a poplar, she assumed, judging by the name of the little one-way street—was bare of leaves. Its spreading branches broke up the thin light of a streetlamp opposite, leaving jagged stripes of darkness across deep red brick and white pilasters.

John hopped out promptly, but Greg leaned in and put his hand on Anna's knee when she moved to open the door on her side. "Love, how about you just wait here? Won't be a moment, we'll pop your bags inside and then we can get straight to dinner with no delay."

"Oh. I guess so..." She was itching with curiosity, but there was something intent in the way Greg was holding her eyes with his own that made her breath catch in her throat. "That makes sense," she agreed, still a little reluctant, but willing to play along.

So she sat in the idling cab and watched the two men walk through the low wrought iron garden gate. The brittle, papery husks of the hydrangea's summer blooms verged close on one side of the short walkway, showering tiny dry petals into the wind as her bulky luggage bumped and caught against them. When Greg stepped into the enclosure around the doorstep, he seemed to disappear briefly into deep shadow, leaving John alone on the walk; illogically, Anna found herself holding her breath in the moments until light appeared within the open doorway and the bay window.

A friendly question from the cabbie startled her out of her rapt attention. "Long visit, eh?"

Anna's eyes followed a silhouette as it crossed back and forth behind light-coloured curtains. "I live here, now," she answered, wonderingly. "We're getting married."

 

.

 

Their dinner was lovely, and all the more appreciated for the long wait leading up to it. They talked and laughed together for over two hours, dining with indulgent slowness: sharing appetisers, and drawing out the meal with wine and dessert. When the waiter came with their sweet kulfi and strong coffee, John ordered a meal to carry home to Sherlock, thus giving them the excuse to stretch the pleasant evening even further...but eventually, Sherlock's takeaway arrived, and they migrated outside to say their goodbyes.

"Come on, it's only a few minutes' walk home from here," Greg smiled, after they'd seen John off in his cab.

Anna didn't think to question him; it had taken at least a couple minutes to ride on to the restaurant in their taxi earlier, but these quiet residential streets ran in only one direction. Greg walked with his arm over her shoulders, sheltering her from the intermittent bite of the chill breeze, and it seemed no time at all before they were back in front of the flat with the big, dry hydrangea in its garden.

"A few minutes? More like two. Maybe less," Anna commented, suddenly quizzical. "Why in the world did you keep the taxi, when it was this short of a walk? It's not _that_ cold out."

He chuckled as he opened the gate and ushered her through. "Ah, you've got me, sweet! I confess, I had an ulterior motive."

Anna brushed a hand over one of the flower husks, considering. "To keep me in the cab. But why?" She looked up, surprised to see that he'd stopped on the doorstep and turned to watch her, leaning against the little wall there with an enigmatic smile.

"Because, love, this is important. And I wanted us to be alone for it." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring: not his own, but the little pewter TARDIS she'd used that summer. "I believe this is yours. Why don't you do the honours?"

"Oh." She reached out to accept it; their fingertips brushed and lingered around the weight of the heavy charm in her palm. Greg moved aside, resting his hand gently in the small of her back as she stepped up to the door.

 _Their_ door.

It was painted a dark colour that blended into the private shadow of the entryway, but before dinner Greg had left a small lamp lit somewhere inside the flat. Soft light filtered through the pair of glass door panes, fully frosted except for an elegant criss-cross pattern, and through the square fanlight above with its painted address number standing out in silhouette.

As she slid the key home and carefully turned it, Anna caught her lip up between her teeth. "This _is_ a big deal, isn't it," she half-whispered.

He brought his mouth close to her ear, and when he spoke her shiver had nothing to do with the cold. "I rather thought so."

She hesitated, tipping her head backwards to feel his breath across her cheek. The moment felt exquisite, like spun glass, and she couldn't help prolonging the tantalising tension of it. Greg seemed caught up in its spell, too; slowly, he drew his touch up, along her shoulder, down her arm and ever-so-delicately over the back of her hand, until his fingers rested along hers over the brass latch.

It pulled an involuntary gasp from her lips, and she shuddered against the warmth of his body pressed all along her back, speaking in a trembling sigh. "Oh _god_ , Greg...I love you..."

"Anna, my darling love," he breathed as the door swung inward, " _welcome home_."

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, all, but I'm going to need to take a short break from this story for a few weeks; unfortunately my (unexpected) obsession with writing my new AU chewed up all of my carefully planned lead time, and now I'm perilously close to having no chapters written ahead. :( But we're an even quarter of the way through the story, now, and all of that sweet setup leaves our characters in a fairly good spot. So hopefully this isn't too painful of a moment to step back a bit!  
> I'll set a few weeks aside for catching up on French Knot, and in the meantime I will continue to post [The Breathless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3850486/chapters/8595928) on Thursdays. (by the way - check it out! It's my new baby!) I'll restart my regular schedule as soon as I can.  
> Thanks for your patience!  
> <3 M.


	11. GREG: For the File

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many things are shifting beneath Greg's feet, lately; it seems new surprises wait for him around every corner, bringing new ways to think of the future...and the past.

  
**11\. GREG: For the File**  
_20-21 December 2015_

.

 

It was half past five on Sunday, and Greg stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a stir-fry to the rhythm of his cheerful, mostly tuneless whistling. The interruption of his ringing phone sent a high note trailing off like a cartoon character falling from a cliff; craning his head around, he saw that Anna hadn't yet returned from the loo, so he couldn't ask for an extra hand...

"All right, all right, keep yer trousers on," he muttered, setting his chef's knife aside and wiping his hands off as quickly as he could. He'd left his mobile on the far end of the worktop peninsula, on the dining room side; he jogged around to reach it and pulled out a stool there to sit as he answered, sing-song. "Hello, hello!"

"My, my! Don't you sound chipper," said the resonant baritone at his ear.

"Brian, you've got no _idea_! How are you, mate?"

His brother answered, "Not half so good as _you_ , clearly, but I can't complain! From the sounds of things, I presume Anna made it in safely?"

"Yeah! Little delay on the landing, but no problems at all. She's been here forty-eight hours, and hasn't got sick of me yet, so I reckon it's going fine..."

Brian laughed and quipped, "Take my advice, don't ever jump to conclusions! I live my life under the assumption that Fran is pretty much _always_ sick of something about me; it's served me well so far!"

"Sure, she's put up with your shite, what? Twenty-two years running? S'pose I'll bow to your obvious expertise, in this case!"

It was still a novelty, being able to speak with his older brother this easily, teasing and joking back and forth without malice. Back in July, when they'd met for that first stilted, awkward dinner after his birthday, Greg hadn't really held out much hope for the improvement of their relationship. But both John and Anna had encouraged him not to give up, and Greg rather suspected that Frankie had given similar advice to her husband. They'd talked a few more times with slightly better results; then Brian had come in from Cambridge and stayed for most of a weekend in late September, to help Greg with packing up his flat for the move. It had taken a great deal of alcohol to loosen their tongues, and quite a few angry and emotional words had been exchanged, but they'd managed to come out on the other side with the air mostly cleared between them.

"But seriously," Greg said, when their shared chuckling died down. "I feel so happy I can barely think straight. It still feels like a dream, you know?"

"Ah, young love. Go on, then, tell me _all_ about it," Brian drawled.

The request was obviously meant sarcastically, but Anna was still out of earshot and he was feeling decidedly impish, so he went right on ahead.

"Well, for starters, I don't think we've gone more than a half hour all weekend without touching. Whatever we're doing, we just stick close like we're glued together! I even ate breakfast this morning left-handed..."

"Jesus, Greg. What are you, fifteen?"

"Hah! You know what I was like at fifteen, come on."

"You're right, naturally. For you, this would be more like...twenty-one?"

Certainly, their rapport was much improved, of late—but Brian still had trouble remembering which buttons not to press. Greg slipped off the stool, taking a few restless steps into the living room; his shoulders were suddenly tense as he said, "Can you not, please?"

The phone in his hand went silent for a moment. "Of course. I'm sorry, Greg."

"Yeah, well. It's—" Turning, he saw Anna coming down the stairs, her steps slowing as she met his eyes, trying to determine what she might be interrupting. "It's fine," he continued, rubbing a hand down his face and trying hard to banish the rush of unpleasant feelings. "Don't worry about it, yeh? So. Why'd you call today? I know it wasn't to hear about my breakfast."

After a pause, Brian answered in a tone that somewhat approximated his earlier joviality. "I wanted to get us all on the same page for next week. We're doing Christmas at my place..."

"Sounds great, but we've plans here in London for Christmas Eve. I've already made our promises, so please pass my apologies on to Fran. If you don't mind us coming up in the afternoon, though, Christmas Day?"

Anna stole up close to his side and tucked herself in under his arm, resting her head over his heartbeat while he finished confirming the arrangements. Though he half-expected her to chime in with a greeting before the end of the call, she stayed silent until he rang off.

"Things sound better," she commented softly.

"Mm, yes. Some of them are."

"It takes time, Greg. I'm glad you're trying." She leaned up to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek before drawing him back towards the kitchen.

He took up his knife to resume the chopping with a thoughtful hum. "You don't mind, though, going up to Cambridge at Christmas? Maybe I should've asked before I told him yes."

Anna replied distractedly as she bustled around behind him, pulling marinated chicken from the fridge and setting the wok to heat. "No, I don't mind at all! There were some things I wanted to get Fran's advice on, it'll be good to have a sit-down with her. And I don't want to ask, yet, but seeing the kids will be a good opportunity to gauge their interest..."

"What are you on about, now?" He stepped up close and reached over her head to the cabinet where he kept the sesame oil; it was an easy excuse for a casual touch, and she leaned back into him for a second with a content sigh.

"Oh, you know. Kicking around ideas for the ceremony. I thought it might be nice to involve them, in some way. We could ask Ian to do a short reading, and maybe Sophie could make a musical contribution of some kind...but they barely know me yet. I'd rather see how they feel about the whole thing, before I put any pressure on them."

They switched places, Greg taking over at the wok as Anna passed him the first few ingredients. "You're giving this a lot of thought, already, aren't you love?"

The look he received when he glanced over was more amused and less pointed than the _you're an idiot_ stares he regularly took from Sherlock...but Greg got the general idea, nonetheless.

"How long has it been since the last time you did this?" she asked, smirking. "No, wait, let me guess. She did all the planning, and you just put on a suit and showed up when you were told?"

"Er—I think it was really her mum, as much as her, and I _was_ working a lot of long shifts, that year..."

"Uh-huh, I'll bet! Well, don't get any ideas about keeping yourself out of the line of fire this time, honey. We're on a tight timeline, here, and there are a lot of decisions we need to make together."

Greg swallowed, and tried to put on a reassuringly confident smile as he stirred. Surely, nearly four months was plenty of time to get everything sorted out? Though now that Anna mentioned it, his memory of the lead-up to his first wedding was mostly a blank...

"It's probably best to assume I've no idea what all needs doing, yeh? You just tell me what you need from me, darling, and I'll be right there with you," he assured her.

"Thanks. And I'll hold you to that, too...but don't worry. I know how busy you get with work; I won't expect you to be involved with _every_ step!" Anna patted him on the shoulder comfortingly, handed him the soy sauce before he could turn to ask for it, then began to lay out the situation in a chattering tone that suggested she'd given it all a great deal of thought. "To start with, I figure you and I should go over my planner together, talk about all the ideas I've filed away. Then, once we're agreed on the biggest details, we can ask our attendants to help us out a little while we work on the rest— _normally_ bridesmaids and groomsmen would get a little more notice than this, of course, so we'll have to get them on board as soon as possible. I asked Liz months ago, but I naturally wanted to ask the others in person; um, have you actually talked to anyone about standing on your side, yet?"

Greg's eyes felt just a bit glassy as he suddenly began to grasp the towering mass of decisions and responsibilities ahead of him...but the smile he wore didn't falter; if anything, it became more genuine. Anna's pragmatic attention to detail would surely make up for any lack on his end of the planning equation. All he had to do was keep his head in the game, follow her lead and help her with the local logistics.

 _All this excitement and enthusiasm of hers,_ he realised with a rush of dizzy pleasure, _it's not really about the fiddly details, is it? In the end, it comes down to marrying me, starting our life together...and that's enough to make me excited about it all, too._

Grinning, he answered her, "I'll get on that straight away, love. Why don't you unpack this file of yours, and you can show it to me while we eat?"

 

.

 

As expected, returning to work on Monday was a trial. Greg lingered as long as he could, and Anna seemed just as reluctant to see him go; the routine of starting their day in a shared home was still new and special, in a way it hadn't been while Anna was merely a long-term visitor in his shabby, lived-in little flat. When he finally dragged himself out the door, he was too late for the Tube; Greg had to hail a cab at the main road in order to arrive at New Scotland Yard in time for his mandatory morning meeting.

Said meeting was unsurprisingly tedious and redundant, instructing all of the department's inspectors on end-of-year review policies that hadn't changed significantly in the last four years. Afterwards, he shut himself into his office with a fresh cup of coffee and pulled the unfinished review forms from his drawer with a guilty sigh.

 _If they'd issued these damned things in October, I could've done 'em ten times over stuck on desk duty,_ he grumbled silently, clicking his pen next to his ear. As much as he enjoyed the various trappings of having subordinate officers—the comradeship and teamwork, the sense of comfortable authority, the occasional opportunity to be a mentor of sorts—there were few tasks less pleasant in Greg's mind than analysing those subordinates' faults and foibles. And he'd learnt years ago that turning in spotless, glowing reviews was in no way kosher.

Perhaps half an hour later, Greg was chewing on the inside of one cheek, struggling to compose a comment that described Sally's quick temper in decidedly mild terms, when the door was flung open with a startling bang.

"Morning," announced Sherlock, breezing in with a dramatic flourish of his overcoat.

"Sherlock, I'm busy. Can this wait?"

"Oh, it's waited quite long enough. You'll want this, Lestrade."

Greg narrowed his eyes at the folder Sherlock thrust at him. It was plain manila, so clearly not a Met file... "What is it?" he asked, accepting it doubtfully.

"Better than your reviews, by far," Sherlock hummed; he'd stepped around to Greg's side and cast a roving eye over the scratched-on drafts of his forms. "Don't use that word. Say 'overeager to please', it's more diplomatic."

He smacked the folder open across the desk to quickly hide his comments on Ronny from view. "Oi! None of your business, back off..." The spread of photocopied photos clipped in at the front of the file caught his eye, and he trailed off in confusion. The two young victims pictured looked distinctly familiar. "Sherlock? Did I give you this?"

Nodding, Sherlock turned away to gaze out the window behind Greg's desk. "Some time ago. I took the liberty of asking Sally to retrieve the case file for you, she'll bring it by shortly."

"Some time...Sherlock, these are the _Runnell_ sisters."

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, in the falsely patient voice he used to signify the blindingly obvious.

"You gave that back to me, god, it's been years ago now; you said it was hopeless. Yeah, I remember that word, distinctly. _Hopeless_."

"Upon re-examination, I found that my original theory was sound. It simply required a clarification in my testing procedure, to make the data gel," he explained airily, without turning around, as if his rare admission of defeat were so easily erased from memory. "This should be enough proof to obtain a warrant for Mitchell Beaux before tomorrow afternoon. If you hurry, Lestrade, you can bring the killer in well before the new year!"

"Beaux really did it? We thought he alibied out!" exclaimed Greg, flipping through pages of numbers and charts.

"It's all there. The unique contaminant in the wounds, the rate of bacterial infiltration; it provides a true and testable chronology! Beaux had an alibi for the time of _death_ , but the act of murder was committed long before the poor girls succumbed. Not that _you_ can understand the raw data, of course, but I've summed it up simply enough on that first page that the most moronic barrister should be able to produce a conviction from it." Sherlock swept away from the window and headed out, saying, "I'll leave this in your hands now, Lestrade, and trust you not to make a muck of it from here. I've got to be off; Anna and I have plans..."

Greg looked up in amazement just in time to catch the enigmatic flicker of Sherlock's smile. "Thank you," he called, but his consultant was already gone, the door falling gently closed in his wake.

 

.

 

Greg had seen it all, he sometimes thought.

Rapists, kidnappers, abusers, torturers. Murder in seemingly every form possible...though there was always something new waiting to be witnessed, something awful and unexpected to turn his stomach and make Sherlock hop for giddy joy. Greg took comfort in his work, anywhere he could—the knowledge that each solved case and each convicted perpetrator was one more victory on the side of justice in his city; the faith that his efforts, his long hours, and his frequent bone-deep exhaustion all had the chance to make a difference. He tallied up saved lives and their potentialities against the gruesome images in his head, when he found himself too wound up for sleep.

He liked to tell himself the count meant something.

But Greg had always been a realist as well as a romantic. He knew there was _far_ more out there.

More than anything, that was the reason he'd worked so hard to keep Sherlock on his side, ever since the night he'd first seen beneath that thorny façade to glimpse what lay beneath. It wasn't that he'd believed the young genius was ever really in danger of being on the _opposite_ side, morally. But Greg had seen him struggle, over the years; he'd seen enough to know that it wouldn't necessarily take much to tip his balance, and cause his natural cynicism to overtake his sense of the greater good. In Greg's opinion, a Sherlock who ceased to care for the outside world enough to solve its puzzles may as well be a Sherlock who actively sought ways to harm others. He knew it wasn't really _like_ that—the man was no psychopath, for God's sake, and barely even anything close to a _sociopath_ for all that he delighted in proclaiming himself so. And after three years of mourning Sherlock's suicide had ended in such a revelation—alive, justified, determined to protect—his overall opinion of Sherlock's potential had become far more optimistic. Sometimes, though, lying awake in the depths of night, Greg could still imagine a future without the benefit of Sherlock's brilliance.

It wasn't a pretty one.

 

.

 

When the door to Greg's office opened again, he was still lost in aimless introspection, staring into space with his hands spread over Sherlock's scrawled notes...marvelling at how casually Sherlock had proffered the results of what must have been hours and hours of painstaking labour and thought. He'd simply dropped it in Greg's lap whole and entire, like a fantastic Christmas gift.

 _In a way, it was probably meant to be one,_ he realised.

Sally cleared her throat pointedly, and he brought his eyes into focus with a twitch. She stood in the doorway, with a fat brown case file among the papers tucked beneath her arm; once she was certain Greg's wandering attention had returned, she took a step in and shut out the murmur of the bullpen outside. "So Holmes is gone, already? Not like him at all, to solve a cold case for you without sticking around to gloat after."

"He was trying to avoid my gratitude, I suspect."

"Gratitude?" She grabbed one of the small chairs, settling herself with legs crossed. "We're always happy to shut the book on a case, but you don't exactly shower him with recognition for these older ones."

"This one was different."

Quirking up an eyebrow, Sally opened her folder and began to read off the basics of the crime. "Eliza and Justine Runnell, sisters aged fifteen and eleven, found dead in a school basement in 2003..."

"It was Jim Harwood's," Greg interrupted her.

She cocked her head a little as she looked up.

"I'd been a sergeant on his team about three and a half years, when he pulled the Runnell case. Jim was a solid DI—you ever get to work with him, at all?"

"No, I only came up to Homicide my last year as a DC, and he was weeks away from retirement by then."

"Oh yeah, I remember. Well, he was tough—seemed like there was nothing too gruesome, nothing too heartbreaking for Jim. He could handle scenes that had the forensic techs heaving. But Justine and Eliza... _this_ one was the only time I ever saw him crack. Turned out he'd had two younger sisters who died around that age. Carbon monoxide from a dodgy furnace, I gather, but Jim was the one who'd come home and found 'em." Greg grimaced, remembering. "He pushed our team—and himself—harder than he'd ever done, on this case, trying to prove it was Mitchell Beaux."

"But he never got to take the guy down," Sally finished. "He probably never even knew for sure whether he was right."

"Yeah."

They shared a moment of silence, until Greg shook himself and reached a hand out. "Go ahead and leave that with me, I'll put something together and ring up the magistrate after lunch, yeh? Meantime, do some digging. I wanna know where Mitchell keeps himself, these days."

"On it." When Sally stood and leaned forward to turn over the case file, an envelope tumbled to the floor from her other papers. "Oh yeah—post room sent this up. Addressed to you."

"Better not be Oxfam again. It was hell getting off their list after Dimmock convinced me to donate," Greg muttered.

It wasn't, of course; the envelope was plain and unremarkable, labelled only with his name and New Scotland Yard's mailing address in simple block printing. All incoming correspondence was scanned six ways to Sunday before coming into the building proper, so Greg didn't hesitate in slicing it open. His rarely-used letter knife was a gaudy old thing of brass and dark wood, one of the few mementoes passed to him upon DI Harwood's retirement; he absently stroked its handle with his thumb as he unfolded and read the terse, unsigned note.

**You heard, and you remember.**

"I heard. Sure, _that_ makes a whole lot of bloody sense. Date this, and throw it in the drawer with all my other fan mail, will ya Sally?"

"Sure thing, sir." She took it back from him with a smirk.

Within the bottom drawer of the wide file cabinet at his left-hand wall there was, in fact, a thick file of such meaningless missives that he'd received over the years, some far more overtly threatening. They came in from criminals he'd busted, from grieving folk who felt their cases hadn't been adequately handled, from random nutters who'd read his name in the papers or seen him on the telly...it was hardly something to get worked up over. Only once in his many years of service in the CID had a nonsense letter led to a _real_ threat.

Sally paused with her hand on the door. "I'll have something for you on Beaux within the hour," she promised.

He nodded his thanks. "I certainly do hope Sherlock is right about it being an easy collar. I wouldn't want to have to cancel plans; we're supposed to be in Cambridge on Friday."

"Family at Christmas, huh? That'll be a nice change for you, you usually haunt the Yard like Marley's ghost through Boxing Day."

It was a valid observation. He hadn't worked on Christmas last year, of course, but if he hadn't been in the States, he knew a couple hours at Baker Street would have been the full extent of his celebrations. Greg shrugged, acknowledging her scored point. "Yeah, well, things are different now, aren't they?"

"They are, at that," Sally agreed, with a smile. "You'll have to make sure you give your Dad my best wishes."

"Oh, no. Pop never does Christmas; he's holed up alone for it every year since Mum passed. But we'll see him soon enough; I'll tell him you said hello."

"What is it with you Lestrades, anyway?" she teased him. "Everyone in your family, you're all world champions in moping and grudges, near as I can tell!"

"You're not far off," Greg laughed, "but who knows, anymore? _Lots_ of things are changing, lately."

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't got my head together _quite_ enough yet to resume weekly posting on this one, but I will try to put something up every other week, at least, for the next little while. Possibly on random days. :)


	12. SHERLOCK: Most Unlikely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't a surprise to Sherlock that they get along, at least not any longer; it isn't a surprise that they can find common ground to spend a day in each other's company. What's shocking is how much he finds himself _enjoying_ it.

  
**12\. SHERLOCK: Most Unlikely**  
_21 December 2015_

.

 

Sherlock stepped out into the hard grey glare of the sunshine outside New Scotland Yard, feeling oddly lighter than he had when he'd gone in just minutes earlier.

 _That's over and done, now,_ he told himself with some satisfaction, raising his hand to hail an oncoming cab.

Of course, he'd still wind up being involved with the case as it rolled on to its close; assuming the killer could be found and brought in (and he'd found no immediate evidence that the man had fled in the past decade), Sherlock would almost certainly end up giving expert testimony in the trial. That would be far down the line, though; hopefully Lestrade would take the hint Sherlock had just given, and keep his appreciative outpourings to a tolerable minimum in the meantime.

Sherlock understood the level of sentiment involved. He recalled the surprised disappointment in Lestrade's eyes, when Sherlock had failed in this effort five years before; it was only natural, given the importance Lestrade had clearly come to place on this particular murder.

The deeply-held desire to bring resolution to the unfinished business of a well-loved mentor was an _entirely_ reasonable emotional reflex.

When his cab pulled up before the Lestrade residence, the dark green painted door opened before he could even step onto the walk. Anna emerged presently, looking cheerily dishevelled with her hair in a messy bun and her violet scarf flapping after her; she hurried towards him with a wide grin.

"Sherlock! It's good to see you!"

"And you, as well," Sherlock replied as he bore up stoically under her enthusiastic hugging.

They wasted no time in beginning the half hour cab ride towards the destination Sherlock had chosen, but a spot of traffic extended that to a little over forty minutes. As they crept onwards through the city in a solid line of vehicles, Anna amused herself by pointing out various pedestrian passers-by.

"Oh, oh, do that one," she requested, elbowing him lightly to draw his attention out the window.

"The man in the blue coat? At this distance, I'd say...lower management, something in the textile industry; just passed over for promotion and suffering anxiety over telling his wife the news; one child of toddler age, and she's recently started actively trying for another."

"That is _so cool_. How about...the green plaid skirt, over there?"

Sherlock had to lean over her lap a bit to clearly see the girl she'd indicated. "Shagging her professor, obviously," was his dismissive verdict.

"Wow. I'm not even surprised; I mean, that _hair_."

"The hairstyle has nothing to do with it," he contradicted her; she giggled and patted his arm, already searching for another likely target.

 

.

 

When Sherlock had contacted Anna to arrange their private rendezvous, she'd given him free rein to pick out an activity for them to undertake together. After some deliberation, he had decided on a visit to the Horniman Museum, lesser-known in the tourist rota: neither massive nor centrally located, but both entertaining and academically worthy. Sherlock had chosen it with a view to its varied subject matter; the galleries here quite neatly found an intersection between his and Anna's fairly divergent interests.

He expected that she would appreciate the ethnic textiles and other wildly miscellaneous artifacts exhibited among the anthropological collections, so he escorted her through those areas first, making occasional deductions regarding the original owners of certain items and receiving words of praise and amazement in return. Some time later, they moved on from the baskets, tools and antique police constables' equipment, and proceeded into the Horniman's Natural History gallery, with its massive taxidermied walrus standing sentinel.

"This is a nice place," Anna said as they strolled in. "You've been here before, right?"

"It's been years, now. But, yes." He'd visited a few times during the more unfettered years of his young adulthood, taking advantage of the free admission to spend time among the various stimulating exhibits. And later on, after he'd found his calling in detective work... "One case I solved for a private client involved a number of unidentified and mixed avian bones. I spent an afternoon or two here for comparative examination. It's quite a well-maintained collection."

"I've never really understood the lure of taxidermy, myself," she murmured, gazing across the long, arched gallery with wide eyes. "I always thought the idea of stuffing and mounting dead animals was pretty creepy."

"It's not as if this is taxidermy for entertainment's sake," Sherlock protested. "It's a tangible, physical record of species as history. Just look; how else might one study the wing extension and specific musculature of the Eurasian Eagle Owl up close, frozen in time? Or, over here: the various breeds of domestic dog common in the twenties and thirties—a fascinating visual example of artificial selection in breeding. See how remarkably _different_ the bone structure is, here, from what we now know!"

She looked at him sidelong, making a clear effort to tolerate and support his enthusiasm. The ranks of antique mounted dog heads, however, obviously did not strike her fancy. She actually went a bit green after meeting the glassy eyes of the bulldog, and strode past it with determination; Sherlock led her quickly on past the canines and across to a tall display case he particularly enjoyed.

"And, look—they have a _dodo_ ," he told her, gesturing at the glass proudly as if presenting an example of his own handiwork.

Anna stood before the extinct bird for a long minute, tilting her head slowly to one side. "All right, I have to give it to you. This is still creepy, I'm not budging on that...but it's kind of an awesome creepy." She turned and linked her arm casually into his elbow as they walked on through the gallery. "So, tell me about this case where you had to compare bird bones..."

 

.

 

After Sherlock had exhausted Anna's patience for bones and preserved beetles, they enjoyed a pleasant hour in the Music Gallery. As he'd expected, she found the incredible variety of historical instruments a fascinating diversion, especially the many predecessors to the double reeds with which she was most familiar.

Finally, they took a turn through the nearest of the museum's multiple gardens, starkly picturesque despite its winter dormancy. At the end of their brief walk, Anna drew him back inside to the café. They seated themselves at a small table; Sherlock cradled a squat porcelain cup of tea between his chilled hands, while Anna worked on demolishing a green salad.

"The holidays always make me so sentimental," she commented, out of the blue.

"Not my area."

"I know," she smiled. "It's nice, though, being able to spend the day _not_ thinking about all of that. I mean, you could have just as easily decided to take me out somewhere so I could help you choose a gift for John or Greg!"

Sherlock scoffed aloud. "Why would I want that?"

"Or, you could have volunteered to help _me_ find Christmas gifts for them..."

" _Why_ would I want _that_?" he repeated, in a tone of affronted shock, and she laughed brightly.

"Actually, I do still need to find things for some of Greg's family." She twisted her mouth to one side in thought. "Let's swing over to the gift shop before we leave, okay? Greg's niece might get a kick out of a reproduction duct flute, or a kalimba..."

"I have no opinion on the matter," Sherlock huffed into his tea, "but it shouldn't take very long for you to determine whether there's anything there worth purchase."

Anna speared a tomato in contented silence. "Thank you," she eventually said.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "You likely would have discovered this museum on your own, sooner or later. It suits you."

"No, not for that—well, yes, that too. Thank you for bringing me here, I do like it. But...thank you for accepting me."

"What?"

"I..." She set down the fork, leaning back in her chair and scanning the café's ceiling for some elusive thought. "Okay, this may sound stupid to you—"

"Most things do."

"Because I _know_ that it's about me and Greg, and I'm certain I'd still be in love with him no matter what the rest of the situation was. But...I feel like, if _you_ had disliked me...I'm not sure things could have worked out for him and me. You know?"

"I really, really don't," Sherlock told her, returning his empty cup to its saucer. "My opinion on the matter should have no bearing whatsoever on your compatibility with Lestrade."

"No, you're right, it shouldn't. But you understand how much importance he places on your judgement."

"Do I?"

"You do. He told me how you used to warn him about his wife..."

"It's not as if he ever actually acted on those warnings," he sneered.

She swallowed an incredulous chuckle as they stood together to clear away their trays and walk out. "Oh, come _on_. You couldn't have expected him to simply drop her like a hot potato, the minute he'd been told? It doesn't work like that."

"I see it work like that all the time!"

"In the context of scandal, or murder, or other crimes of passion. Sure. But this is _Greg Lestrade_ we're talking about here."

Sherlock sighed, long-suffering in the face of her relentless sentimental logic. " _Fine_. Remind me, Anna, what was the point of this inane conversation, again?"

She was silent as she held the door for him to pass, gathering her thoughts as they crossed into the little shop. After she'd located and made her way over to study the display of souvenir musical instruments, she spoke once more, directing her soft words towards where Sherlock stood a pace behind her left shoulder. "You're right. What I'd wanted to say wasn't about Greg, or only part of it was, anyway. I wanted to thank you for becoming a friend to me. Making the decision to leave behind everyone and everything I knew, to start over far away...well, love or not, I might not have been able to bring myself to do that, without knowing I would have a friend like you here."

Sherlock stood frozen at her back, utterly unable to formulate a response. When Anna finally turned and looked, he shook himself and spluttered weakly, "This is intolerable. I'll be outside, when you've finished shopping."

Her wide smile threw amused creases around her eyes, and followed him out as he hurried away to deposit himself on a bench near the main doors.

 

.

 

The ride back from the museum was thankfully quiet, at first. Anna didn't seem upset at all by his reluctance to talk; she gazed out at the passing buildings with a wholly serene expression, clutching the paper gift bag with the handbag on her lap.

Sherlock studied her from the corner of his eye, and then more openly once he was sure she wasn't about to revisit her embarrassing declarations. She allowed his scrutiny without comment.

At last, he cleared his throat to speak.

But even after she'd turned to face him, he found himself holding his tongue, considering and then discarding at least three possible beginnings to what he'd imagined himself ready to say. Anna didn't press; she waited patiently, not even insisting upon full eye contact, and _how_ in the world was that actually even _more_ frustrating?

He hardly noticed he was scowling so deeply, until Anna murmured, "You don't have to."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Like I said. I get sappy around Christmas, okay? We can just leave it at that. You're not required to reciprocate, in terms of anything I've said."

"But—"

"It's _fine_. Really." She began to extend a hand towards him, seemed to think better of it, then reconsidered a second time and patted him gently on the arm, dropping her hand to rest on the seat between them. Then she turned to look out the window again, watching the approach of sunset.

Sherlock stared down at her fingers, at the paired stones of her engagement ring shining dully in the shadows of the quiet cab interior. The problem _wasn't_ that he didn't reciprocate. It wasn't even that her declarations in regards to their friendship had caused him discomfort—though they certainly had, on some level.

 _Sentiment,_ he reminded himself, _is a distraction. It's an indulgence. It's an endless source of worry, and pain._

What better examples of this, than the string of too-recent memories that still brought the taste of bile to his throat? The sight of John, dangling from the glass railing with slipping fingers, his face gone pale and panicked. The look in Lestrade's eyes, as he came to the unavoidable realisation that Anna might have been poisoned, and the unexpected churning in Sherlock's gut as he found he was mirroring at least some of the man's intense emotions. The cold, disorienting shock that had swept over Sherlock as he stood in that dark alley, reading the distinct evidence of a violent brawl that had clearly not ended well...

 _No,_ Sherlock shouted silently, blinking hard so that the little diamonds would stop their damnable blurring. _That_ was not something to be thought of, or spoken of; that was _put away_ where it would no longer disturb his sleep—where it could no longer intrude upon his interactions with John, making him rude and savagely irascible at unpredictable moments, when he was _meant_ to be kind and loving!

And, there: that was the crux of it, the painful paradox that closed his throat when he tried to find honest words to offer in return for Anna's selfless trust...because sentiment was a double-sided trap. Sentiment was a comfort he'd learned to crave, and the further he slipped down into its habits, the more of its distraction he desired...

The cab pulled to a stop before the flat in Shepherd's Bush; Sherlock stepped out along with his companion, and as he made payment he saw movement ahead at the door. Their excursion had run long enough into the afternoon that Lestrade had already returned home from work, and now he was stepping out in his shirtsleeves to meet them on the front walk.

"Hey there," Lestrade grinned, catching Anna's hand and pulling her close for a kiss on the cheek. "Did you have a nice day, then, love?"

"We did! I really enjoyed myself," she answered him, turning beneath his arm to face Sherlock with twinkling eyes as she said it.

"That's great," was his warm response, and then his attention was on Sherlock, too. "Sticking around, Sherlock? Come in, let me fix you a cuppa."

Sherlock's mouth opened, and closed; he looked between the two happy, expectant faces, and produced a passable smile of his own. "Thank you for the offer, Lestrade. But I've got some business to take care of, yet tonight. I should be getting on with it."

"Aw, well, surely it could wait just a _little_ longer? I could fill you in on what we found today, looking for Beaux..."

"Really, it shouldn't wait," he said through not-quite-locked teeth, and reached for the nearest plausible excuse: "I still haven't picked up a Christmas gift for John. You understand."

"Oh-ho! Well, don't let us keep you, then. I'll just email you the juicy details later tonight, and keep you updated as we go tomorrow. And we'll see you and John on Thursday, yeh?"

Sherlock nodded. "We look forward to it, of course," he said, accepting the DI's offered handshake, unusual as it was.

With that, the three of them moved apart, Lestrade stepping lively in the lead as a gust of chill wind finally made him shiver. Anna started to follow him at a more reserved pace, shaking her head in amusement.

Pausing at the gate, Sherlock called out. "Anna?"

She turned, canting her head to the right, her hand on the open door.

"You and I should do this again, sometime."

"We should," she agreed. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

With a slow nod, he swung the little garden gate closed behind him, then set off down the pavement to walk through his crowded thoughts.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still slow going, with this story. Sorry to keep everyone waiting... I promise, I haven't given up on it! It's just...fighting me, a little. ;)


	13. JOHN: Necessary Evils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs to fulfil an annual obligation at the last minute, and he's going to desperate lengths to find what he needs...but help comes from an unexpected quarter.

  
**13\. JOHN: Necessary Evils**  
_21 December 2015_

.

 

Shopping was not John's strong suit. Gift shopping, even less so.

John vehemently disliked shopping for himself—his well-worn and utilitarian wardrobe stood testament to that—but his mother had always placed great importance on the giving of gifts. Whatever else she'd passed on to him, that much had stuck. Unfortunately, neither his trained idealism nor the frequent guilt it engendered had made meaningful impact on his purchasing skills over the years.

Whenever an occasion came around, John's cycle of reactions followed a predictable routine—shock at the passage of time, anxiety over his lack of planning, consternation, mild panic, disappointed resignation. Too often, he found himself stumped, standing in the centre of a busy shop and hating it all the more for not knowing what he wanted. And though he managed to pull it off, more often than not—or, at least, the recipients of his more awkward presents never seemed to react as badly as he expected—John continued to place undue pressure on himself, every time.

Because of all this, John was never too thrilled about the lead-up to the holiday season...but he was even more nervous than usual, this Christmas. He had _four_ more people on his list of unavoidable obligations this year than last. Anna certainly would be no problem—theirs was a fairly casual, low-contact friendship, and he could tell she would genuinely appreciate nearly any small token from him. No, it was the Holmes family who gave him serious pause. Mycroft was a potential issue; John no longer really harboured ill feelings towards him, but he'd done so for years, and they both knew it quite well—and besides, the man was obviously picky and a master of the passive-aggressive comment. Then there were his parents. John had only just met Miriam and Cliff that April, but they'd welcomed him readily and acted as if they'd known him far longer...and now he and Sherlock were obligated to attend the family celebration on Christmas Day, out at the Holmes country home. The very idea of it seemed so against Sherlock's general principles that it was sure to be disastrous, but they were going, and John knew he needed to be prepared with offerings to make up for whatever catastrophes of insult might arise.

So, what were acceptable gifts for the parents of one's romantic partner, within the first year?

And would _normal_ sorts of gifts possibly be appropriate, for people who had raised men like Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes?

John had looked for normal. He'd tried. He'd even gritted his teeth and braved the hated crowds at Harrods for an afternoon, remembering the types of things that Miriam had enjoyed browsing. But nothing had struck his fancy; it all seemed too familiar, too presumptuous, too commercial, too trite. Nothing John found was _right_. And asking Sherlock for advice was right out.

While he and Greg had waited for Anna's flight at Heathrow, the previous Friday, John had made mention of his concerns with some embarrassment. To his credit, Greg had seemed nearly as discomfited at the idea of having to pick out Christmas gifts for the Holmeses as John was. He did suggest looking for something offbeat and antique, though, and so John had spent his free time over the weekend in a renewed search. Finally, he'd bumbled into a small antique shop. The proprietor there had helpfully informed him of a large estate sale taking place that week. It would be a trek, but Sherlock had already informed him that he planned to spend most of Monday with Anna...so John had decided to go ahead and take the chance.

 

.

 

The estate sale was being held on a rambling old property in the general area of Watton's Green, northeast of London—nearly an hour's drive in the little car John had hired for the day. He hoped the excursion would turn out to be worthwhile, although his optimism was heavily tempered by the knowledge that anything he did find would likely be unsuitable, or far beyond his price range. At this point, however, he'd dithered over choosing gifts long enough that he would have to settle on _something_.

Sprawling and formal as it was, John thought the country home itself rather charming, if a bit more ornate than he preferred. Its shabby rooms were moderately crowded, filled with a buzz of quiet conversation as collectors and bargain hunters meandered through and clustered in small groups with their heads together.

An auction was to begin in a few hours, for the large furnishings and more notable items; the very thought of attempting to navigate something like that by himself put John into a cold sweat. Just as the antiques dealer had promised, however, there were a series of rooms full of inexpensive pick-and-carry miscellanea—intriguing old photographs, antique baubles, and various odd items of Victoriana which might look quite at home among the esoteric clutter of his and Sherlock's flat.

By the time John progressed into the third sale room, he was feeling moderately confident. He hadn't actually chosen anything, yet, but there were a few items he thought he might return to consider. When the new room turned out to house multiple waist-high bins displaying old books, he knew he had at least a fair chance of finding something that Cliff might find worthwhile.

 _If I'm very lucky,_ thought John, _I might even find something Sherlock would be amused by..._

This thought was foremost in his mind as he stepped up to the first bin and began skimming titles. It was hardly a shock that he'd begun associating practically everything he saw with one member or another of the Holmes family, considering how focused he was on his goal. So when he glanced up to see a tall, well-dressed man ahead of him, John automatically compared his prim posture and dark ginger hair to that of Mycroft. The man was facing away from John, holding up a leather-bound volume and peering along its edge; he even carried an umbrella, hooked fussily beside the suit jacket he held draped over one forearm...

_No. It's not, is it? Can't be. For one thing, that suit; I've never seen him in anything like that colour!_

John nearly dismissed the man, then and there, just for the colours he wore. With buff shirtsleeves beneath a khaki tweed vest and olive trousers, he certainly seemed nothing like the stuffy embodiment of the British Government. But although it was informal, it was clearly an impeccably tailored ensemble, and this gentleman seemed to hold himself like a poised peacock, gliding among the common folk...

He couldn't quite keep the disbelief from his voice as he stepped closer. "Mycroft?"

The man's head snapped up and around—it _was_ him—and he straightened from his scrutiny of the bin. "Doctor Watson. This is a surprise."

Until John heard those words, he hadn't considered that the encounter could have been anything _but_ a surprise; now, though, he found himself glancing around for cameras or mysterious attachés. Finding no obvious signs of a setup, he returned his attention to Mycroft, only to see that the man had actually taken a few steps farther along the bin, as if attempting to escape conversation. While this had, in fact, been John's first impulse, seeing it from Mycroft produced an almost perverse desire to do exactly the opposite.

"So," he said mock-suggestively, following a step behind, "come 'round here often?"

Mycroft's shoulders stiffened. "Oh, come now. Must you be ridiculous?"

"I don't know, it seemed like a natural response," John smirked. "Seriously, though. I'm fairly shocked to see _you_ out here."

"I could say the same, John. Estate sales don't quite seem your cup of tea."

"I wouldn't have pegged them for yours, either. Don't you have staff, for this sort of thing? Personal shopping service?"

"I happen to find these auction events a relaxing diversion," he replied.

"More, or less, relaxing than micromanaging a third-world coup?" asked John, raising an eyebrow in disbelief at the thought that _anyone_ could relax listening to an auctioneer.

To his further surprise, Mycroft gave a low chuckle at the joke. "You really ought not to believe everything my brother tells you about me, John."

"Sure, sure. Gotcha. That had _nothing_ to do with you; don't worry, no-one will be hearing it from me." John looked him up and down, amazed all over again at the difference from his usual dark suits. He wasn't even wearing a _tie_... "I didn't know you even _got_ days off? Next you'll be telling me you build birdhouses in your spare time, or knit hats!"

Mycroft sniffed, his lips twitching. "You know what they say. All work and no play, Doctor. And what about you? Has something in particular brought you out to Watton's Green?"

"I'm shopping for a few extra people, this year. Thought I'd try something different."

"Ah. And have you managed to find anything?" Mycroft pointedly looked him up and down, and John crossed his empty arms defensively.

"Well..."

Letting out a theatrical sigh, Mycroft turned back to the bin of books. "I certainly hope you're not expecting me to give you any advice."

"Yeah, I'm sure _that_ would turn out wonderfully," John muttered, reaching down to brush his fingers over an ornately embossed spine: _Naval Dry Docks of the United States._

They were silent, for a minute or two, moving slowly along the bin together in a vaguely companionable fashion. John did his best to refocus his attention on the task at hand, but he was beginning to have second thoughts about it all. Truly, he might have been better off just buying those lavender scented candles...he'd bought a similar gift set years back, for a girlfriend's birthday, and she'd seemed to think it was okay, or at least she hadn't dumped him for another few weeks after that...

"You shouldn't worry so," Mycroft said softly, startling him. "They're hardly what you'd call picky."

John looked over, wide-eyed, but the man was intently studying the overleaf of a musty-looking volume of Keats. "No? Then where the hell did you two get it from?"

He chose not to answer that. "Undoubtedly our mother will be so enamoured with the novelty of your presence that your choice of gift will be entirely immaterial."

"If she's somehow expecting sparkling wit from _my_ company, I'm not sure what to say to that..."

"Just so," uttered Mycroft dryly, peering at him over the edge of the book.

John resisted an overwhelming urge to pull a rude face at him.

"Meanwhile," Mycroft blithely continued, "Father enjoys the holiday season for its annual indulgences, above all. He takes great pleasure in shirking his doctors' recommendations during these celebrations."

There was another brief silence as John considered this statement. Mycroft replaced the Keats, and strolled around to the opposite side of the long bin; John watched him warily.

Finally, John cleared his throat. "Thought you weren't giving me advice?"

"I'm certain I haven't."

They exchanged a thin smile, and for a few minutes they returned to mutually ignoring each other's presence, although they continued through the room side by side like casual companions.

"I suppose, then," John eventually said, throwing an aimless glance over his shoulder, "for Mum, the Art Nouveau candle vase; for Dad, something alcoholic. Or, sweet?"

"Or both," Mycroft agreed. "It's a simple enough solution to your problem, unless you feel the desperate need to infuse the occasion with your typical excess of sentiment."

"Ah yes, _sentiment_. Well, Christmas isn't my favourite really, as far as it goes."

"No? I'd have thought it right up your alley," countered Mycroft; a year prior, it would have sounded malicious, but now John heard a clear undertone of teasing amusement.

John shrugged, smiling faintly down at the bedraggled mix of books. "Maybe, once. It's still important to me, sure. But the Watson family...we've got a history of bad things happening on Christmas."

"...Ah."

Memories clogged John's throat for the space of a breath, but he shoved them back into place. He could save thoughts on Harry for the end of the week, when he was sure to receive her usual package: a garish jumper, and an emotionless note, and another year's yawning chasm gone cold and guilty between them...

He shook himself back to the reality of the present. Chatting, yes. "So. What about you, Mycroft? What's a Holmes family Christmas really like?"

Mycroft considered his answer briefly. "Tedious. Mundane, saccharine. Excruciating. Yet...oddly restorative."

"One of those 'soldier through it' kinds of occasions?"

"You'd know all about those, I presume."

"Well, I _was_ a soldier."

The undercurrent of the unspoken threatened to spill over between them; John realised with a guilty start that he hadn't looked directly at the other man in quite a while. When he steeled himself to turn, though, the expected stare of calculating assessment was absent. Mycroft was instead facing partially in the opposite direction, gazing off into space, the thin gold ring on his right hand glinting where his palm spread across the cover of a leather-bound volume.

It was, ever so briefly, the unguarded expression of a lonely man with regrets and worries beyond the telling.

As John stood frozen by the revelation, Mycroft's eyes shuttered over, and his posture changed; by the time he drew a long inhale through his nose and pivoted smoothly to face John, he'd regained a measure of his usual detached humour.

"And I'm certain that as a soldier, you'll bear up admirably under the onslaught of Mother's small talk," Mycroft said, exactly as if there had been no break in their strange conversation.

John met his cool eyes—thinking crazily, _he looks so much like Sherlock when he makes that face_ —and somehow found a quick response. "Maybe I should bring along a bottle for you and me to share. Troop reinforcements, as it were."

A shadow of a laugh flickered across the man's aquiline features. "I wouldn't say no to a nice cognac," he admitted, just as a brisk ringing sound carried through from the hall. "Ah—there's the bell; five minutes until the main event. There's a lovely eighteenth century credenza I had my eye on, I'd hate to miss the action..."

"Oh, I wouldn't think of keeping you," John responded immediately. "But, um, thank you. Er, for—" He gestured a bit helplessly, suddenly embarrassed.

"Think nothing of it; it's been surprisingly pleasant to have the company." Mycroft glanced down at the book he held, his hand still splayed across its cover; he passed it across to John as if coming to an abrupt decision. "I'm certain you've already chosen something personal for him; still, this would go over far better with my brother if it comes from you."

"Oh—are you sure?"

"Completely. Don't worry, all of the books are wildly inexpensive, today; clearly the executor has no idea what they're selling in this collection. I've already purchased a larger gift suitable for Sherlock's derision, at any rate."

"All right." Nodding, John gamely accepted the book. He tucked it under his arm to extend his hand. "Good, uh, good seeing you, Mycroft."

"Until Friday," was the crisp reply, accompanied by a firm handshake. "Good day, John."

With that, Mycroft returned his umbrella to his hand and followed a murmuring group out into the main hall, towards the site of the auction proceedings.

Alone once more, John moved in the opposite direction, intent upon revisiting the candle vase he'd earmarked for Miriam. As he went, he replayed the highlights of the encounter with a faint sense of bewilderment. Before long, he remembered the book he'd been given to purchase; pausing, he read the words embossed in gilt on the fine ochre-coloured leather of its binding: _Parkes' Chemical Catechism._

Unfamiliar with the name, he opened it up. The title page proclaimed it a second edition copy, printed in 1807. It was in excellent condition, John noted as he flipped through a few pages near the back; when densely packed footnote print gave way to centred text, his attention was caught. In the middle of a series of dry and offhand notes about thermal circulation and the chemical production of gases, there was a _poem_ —an actual poem, in florid, rhyming quatrains, on the subject of the use of gasometers to provide oxygen therapy to ailing patients.

He laughed softly, shaking his head; clearly, there was no way Sherlock would fail to see his brother's hand in the choice of this present.

But it was fitting, wasn't it? And whatever discomfort John, or Mycroft, or even _Sherlock_ felt in regards to the sentimental proceedings of Christmas, there was no getting around it.

They were family, the three of them.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still limping along with this one, very very slowly, but I figure I should try and update it at least once in a blue moon...  
> Thanks for your patience. :)


	14. ANNA: Table for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a quiet day, a perfect chance for Anna to adjust to her new home...and an opportunity to accept an unexpected invitation.

  
**14\. ANNA: Table for Two**  
_22 December 2015_

.

 

Waking up in London took a little getting used to.

Sure, Anna had already run this hurdle a few times—initially, in a dimly-lit room on the third storey of a quaint and vaguely run-down rooming house (and _that_ was another adaptation, in itself; it was the fourth floor, for goodness' sake, and she still had trouble thinking any other way, but she was American so what did she know?). Then, not even a year later, she'd gone through the adjustment again, in a cosy and already familiar little flat full of a bachelor's knick-knacks and mismatched furniture.

Neither of those acclimation periods had held quite the excitement and charm of this time, though. And she supposed that was fitting, after all...it would most likely be her last.

Anna smiled in blushing disbelief at her good fortune, with her face still burrowed into her pillow; one incredible thing about this particular settling-in was, so far, the periodic realisation of its permanence.

Her jet lag was nearly conquered, at this point; the dragging fatigue was gone, leaving only a tendency to wake up at erratic hours, suddenly alert to every little noise. The not-exactly-quiet soundscape of pre-dawn London, audible here in the comfortable darkness of the bedroom, was so different than the sounds she'd woken to outside her Chicago house when she'd lived there. It was amazing to her that two large cities could feel so distinct, that the very _air_ seemed to hold a different flavour...

There was a very soft _click_ from the bedside table near her ear, a momentary precursor to the droning buzz of the alarm clock; by the time the louder sound began, Anna had already rolled quickly over to lie on her back. It took three or four more seconds for the man beside her to stir, and when he did, he lifted himself up on one elbow to reach over her head to the clock. She was ready for the groggy, careful manoeuvre, and took advantage of its predictability to catch him by surprise. 

"Oh, _mmm_ ," Greg rumbled deep in his chest, as her arms slipped around to pull his mouth down to hers. "Morning, my love..."

"Good morning to you," she purred against the stubble beneath his lower lip. "...Gonna get that?"

He chuckled and renewed his efforts to reach the alarm, groping blindly at the table without breaking the kiss, and she responded to the challenge by snaking a leg out from under her dislodged covers, twisting to ensnare his waist and draw him in closer.

" _Christ_ , Anna, you are bloody brilliant," panted Greg, his kisses increasingly urgent, "but are you planning to _let_ me get that?"

Giggling, she released her hold long enough for him to lift himself farther and smack the button. When the buzzing ceased at last, he collapsed atop her dramatically, burying his face at the side of her neck with a relieved sigh.

"What brought this on? You usually sleep in." He teased her earlobe with gentle teeth as he said it.

"I woke up a little while ago, I don't know how that happened..."

"Well, it can happen anytime you like, far as I'm concerned," he told her, his voice thickly muffled as he shifted his ministrations over her collarbone and moved his free hand along her side.

"Oof, you're _heavy_."

"You asked for it," he huffed happily, wriggling a bit.

"Mm-hm...oh, on second thought, stay _right_ there."

 

.

 

A little over an an hour later, Greg left for work, reluctant but grinning from ear to ear. Anna watched him through the small bay window, striding off towards Goldhawk Road with a spring in his step. She smiled, sipping her coffee thoughtfully, and twitched the sheer curtain back into place as he moved on out of sight.

It was good to see him so happy, _reassuring_ somehow, even though she knew much of it was surely the excitement of her first days back and the upcoming holiday. Greg's friends— _their_ friends—had promised to watch out for issues, and they'd never mentioned anything worrisome to her...but over the past months, she'd noticed Greg changing on her phone and computer screen from week to week. His facial expressions, the sound of his voice, his increasingly careful choice of words when she asked after him: she'd been sure, by mid-autumn, that he was trying hard to cover the evidence of a slide into depression.

Those months had been difficult for her, too; she knew she could very easily have been reading signs that weren't really there. So she'd never quite found the confidence to ask outright, during their long-distance conversations. ("I'm worried that you're missing me too much" had sounded either egotistical or presumptuous, no matter how she'd considered phrasing it.)

 _He seems to be okay, now,_ she told herself, firmly quashing her concern. _Just wait until things die down, after Christmas, and you'll see where it stands._

To be completely honest, Anna didn't _want_ to be the pivot point for Greg's happiness. It was flattering, no doubt, to have his undivided attention; it was exhilarating to be the recipient of his wholehearted love...but it troubled her to think that he might not have it in him to be happy, without her around.

 

.

 

**Quiet day, today. If we don't pull a case by two, I'll come home early. -GL**

**Murderers taking Christmas week off, huh? Thoughtful of them. Haven't you got any paperwork to do? Or filing? I smell a man trying to play hooky... *A***

Anna chuckled as she sent off the teasing message and set the phone down on the carpet behind her. She sat cross-legged on the floor in the spare downstairs room, with half-emptied boxes and piles of threads and paraphernalia scattered all around. Greg had set this room aside for her creative work; eventually, once things were situated better in here, they planned to move the old sofa bed to this room, and choose a larger, more comfortable piece for their living room. But first, Anna needed to get a handle on her mess.

Greg had thoughtfully purchased a set of storage cabinets fairly similar to the ones she'd used in the States, since they'd been far too heavy to consider shipping. He'd even installed a pegboard on one wall, over a desk large enough to mark and cut fabrics. Anna was looking forward to a quiet morning, immersed in the relaxation of supply organisation. Of course, she fully expected a certain amount of playful distraction...and the phone trilled again before even a minute had passed, as if in confirmation.

**You say that like you don't want me to. :-) Planning a surprise? -GL**

**Well... If I told you, I'd have to kill you. *A*  
**kiss you. ;) xx *A***

There was a longer break, this time, and Anna smiled at the thought of Greg having to wait for someone to leave the room before he could pull the phone out and read her response.

She had both hands full of brightly coloured silk, trying to decide whether to fill her first cabinet by manufacturer numbers or separate the threads by shade, when the phone rang. Rushing to juggle all the skeins into one hand, she reached for the phone and answered without looking.

"So sorry, Mr Bond, but I'll never tell you my master plan," she said in a comically villainous accent, as she brought the phone to her ear.

The voice that replied, after a moment's hesitation, was vaguely familiar but definitely not Greg's: "Er. I'm calling for Anna—have I misdialled?"

"Oh! Oh my god. I'm sorry, I thought— _shit_. Yes, this is Anna."

The man on the other end laughed, a smooth and resonant boom, and with that she knew exactly who'd called her. "Thank goodness! I asked Fran for the number earlier, but it'd be just my luck if I copied it wrong."

"Brian, I've got no excuse for answering like that. I'm sorry. I thought it was your brother, fooling around!"

"No worries," Brian answered, still chuckling. "So, I take it you're on your own for the day?"

"At least another hour or two; Greg said he might be able to get out of work a little early, today. Why?"

"I'm in London, right now. Year-end meetings; boring shite I get roped into when all the higher execs leave the country for holiday. But I have a few hours free for lunch. Thought I'd take a chance, and see if you were available."

Anna's brows rose in surprise at the request. "Oh! Well, hold on, just a sec..." The phone had pulsed briefly in her hand while Brian was talking; she pulled it far enough away to see the message that had come through.

**Looks like I jinxed it! Body @ Archbishop's Park, we're on. Your dastardly plot is safe 'til at least 7:00... xxx -GL**

"It turns out I'm free after all, Brian," she reported. "I'd love to see you. How soon should I be ready?"

 

.

 

The restaurant was certainly a bit fancier than what Anna was used to, for lunch. Elegant draperies swooped from a high vaulted ceiling, and the chairs were upholstered in rich crushed velvet; a live string quartet sat on a raised dais in one corner and sent delicate strains of music across the space.

Brian wore a crisp and well-tailored navy suit, his fine white button-down paired with a sumptuous-looking green silk tie. By contrast, Anna felt dowdy and underdressed in her fuzzy cable-knit jumper and jeans. She'd heard him say "meetings", but it hadn't even occurred to her to think of what that meant, before she'd already stepped into the cab with him and it was too late to change.

"Don't fret," Brian murmured as he spread the serviette across his lap, "you're fine. I truly didn't mean to intimidate you, by bringing you here; the owner is an old friend of mine. You won't see it on the menu, but they'll make me an absolutely amazing cheeseburger."

Anna dropped her hand—she'd apparently been plucking nervously at her collar without noticing. "You're getting a cheeseburger? Here?"

"Phenomenal, I promise. The stuff on the menu's not too shabby, either, from what I hear," he told her, winking.

A balding man wearing a dark suit and a chunky signet ring came by their table before long. Brian stood and gave him a combination handshake and rowdy clap on the shoulder—clearly, this friend went way back.

"Brian, you daft old bugger! It's been absolutely ages!"

"Hugh, you know I'd be in here every week if I lived in town. And likely about four stone heavier, as well! Here—I'd like you to meet Anna Clark. She's to be my sister-in-law, in a few months! Anna, this is Hugh Delancey, proprietor of this fine establishment."

"Pleased to meet you," Anna told the man, graciously receiving a handshake.

Hugh bent forward and kissed her hand before releasing it. "The pleasure is mine," he insisted. "So you're marrying his brother, eh? Congratulations—snagging a _Lestrade_ is a difficult catch, indeed!"

This brought a deep, amused chuckle from Brian. "Still jealous, after all these years? Don't let Pietro hear you."

"Ah, love, he knows who's on my list. The ones who got away," Hugh sighed theatrically, with a hand splayed over his heart and a playful wink towards Anna. "I keep telling you, if your dear, sweet Frances ever decides to cut you loose, you come call on me! Now, Brian, down to the _important_ business. Will you be having your usual _special_ , or can I tempt you with something else? We've just got some truly magnificent filets mignonnes, and the roast aubergines with cranberry balsamic glaze are perfect with that..."

Brian shook his head, grinning. "You know that the way to my heart is through that burger of yours, Hugh. I just can't stray from my true love!"

Anna piped up, "Personally, I think that sounds amazing. I haven't had a good filet in a really long time."

"And she's a lady with _taste_. Clearly, a fine addition to the family! Teach this lunkhead a thing or two, won't you, Anna? Right, so I'll get your meals started, and leave you two to talk..." With that, the charming restaurateur nodded happily and bustled away.

In the sudden silence, Anna looked across at Brian with a new appreciation, feeling a sort of manic giggle pressing against the back of her tongue.

She held it in successfully, right up until the moment he cleared his throat and said, "When I say 'old friend', well—"

"Oh, you are _so_ going to have to tell me _that_ story!"

"Yes, I suppose I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Sort of, yeah!" Anna watched a quick, furtive expression pass over Brian's face. He and Greg were different in many ways, but their faces held eerie similarity: on Greg, she knew that look signalled nervous embarrassment. "But you don't have to go into it now. We've got plenty of time to get to know each other; there's no rush."

Back came the dazzling smile, even white teeth in a perfect line across Brian's tanned face. When she'd first met him, Anna had thought it a bit off-putting—a salesman's layer of smooth artifice covering over what her eyes still saw as Greg's features, turning them into something disturbingly insincere.

Now, as she settled in for what promised to be a pleasant conversation, she began to realise it wasn't so strange, after all.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling happy about the upcoming holiday weekend / bored on a super slow day at work / antsy for feedback, and so I've decided to do an unscheduled post for both this and Saving Graces today! woo!  
> If SG ever lets go of my brainstem long enough for me to focus on anything else (argh), I promise I'll be getting back to French Knot. I've got some issues to work out with it, and it's giving me fits, but I promise I haven't abandoned it completely. :)  
> Cheers - <3 M.


	15. SHERLOCK: Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for the holiday have all been made, and there's nothing left to be done. There's plenty of time, however, for Sherlock to amuse himself.

  
**15\. SHERLOCK: Interlude**  
_23 December 2015_

.

 

The atmosphere within New Scotland Yard in the days leading up to Christmas was a strange blend of expectancy and tension. Half of the people Sherlock passed were buckling down to try and clear their workload before they took the holiday; the other half were working to prepare themselves for a tough few days of increased duty—not everyone could take the time off. Not everyone wanted to.

Still, there was a general air of goodwill as Sherlock crossed through the mostly-quiet bullpen on the fourth floor.

Sally Donovan's curly head popped up over the edge of an office divider ahead of him. She nodded as she saw him, pausing in her steps to resume walking not quite alongside. "Holmes. Didn't think we'd have you in, today."

"Nothing too important," he answered mildly, hitching himself slightly to the side as a harried-looking young constable bustled through, loaded down with papers. "Just filling time, really."

She snorted and stopped beside her desk to grab a pile of files and loose pages. "Aren't we all? But you're the only one I've ever known who considers it a pastime to loiter about the Yard." As she spoke, she continued on with her armload through the unlocked door of Lestrade's office, and Sherlock followed her.

"Where's Lestrade?"

"He popped over to Bart's; Molly had something he needed, to close out that body in the park from yesterday. He'll be back shortly."

"He usually locks his door, when he's out of the building," Sherlock observed, taking the opportunity to fling himself into Lestrade's cushioned chair and arrange his limbs into a suitably relaxed display.

"Yeah, but I needed to get in his drawers." She gestured matter-of-factly with her chin to indicate her full arms. "Filing. Someone has to do it, and he's frankly awful at it!"

"Protocol does seem to be your strength, more than his," he agreed. He kicked his feet up onto Lestrade's desk, ankles crossed, and leaned back indulgently. It really was quite a comfortable seat; he could see why Lestrade enjoyed his rare opportunities to relax in it.

"That meant as an insult?" she grunted, settling herself on her knees next to the long filing cabinet and pulling out the lowest drawer.

"Absolutely not. To you, anyway."

"Good."

This seemed to make a natural break in the conversation; Sherlock allowed her to work in peace for a minute or two, appreciating the silence. Quiet of any kind at the Yard was a rare commodity, and it held an appeal that was entirely separate from the quiet at home. There, in the times when John was at work and Mrs Hudson was away with her ladies' club—as it was this afternoon—silent rooms sometimes took on a stifling constriction. Here, every lull in the shifting murmuration of the office was a promise of calm before action, a virtuous readiness.

Most of the people here were idiots, of course, but they were nevertheless a force of good in the city Sherlock loved.

 _The side of the angels,_ he mused, turning his gaze from the ceiling to Sally's lowered head with a sudden and disconcerting sense of uneasy nostalgia. _I never have been one of them. But they do accept my assistance._

As if she'd sensed the change in Sherlock's mood, Sally chose that moment to restart the small talk. "So, Dr Watson's not with you today?"

"Clearly not."

She threw a sharp, assessing glance up at him, leading him to reconsider his answer.

"Working at the surgery. I didn't leave him at _home_ while I came to bother Lestrade. Don't get any ideas, Sally, we're not in a _tiff_."

"Did I say anything?"

"You were thinking it."

"Fine, well you can't blame me can you? It's not like _you're_ grade A relationship material, is it?"

"Ah, Sally. Sweet of you, trying to emulate our old balance, but I already know you're really just concerned for us."

Sally's response to this insight was to stick her tongue out at him quite rudely, but as she bent her head back to her filing she wore a small smile. "Look, I'm just trying to keep up the status quo. Someone's still gotta give you a hard time now and again, right?"

"I suppose you've got a point. Lestrade still hasn't quite managed to adjust; I keep catching him looking around with an expression incredibly like a lost dog, after he's come into a room fully prepared to scold you and me for arguing," Sherlock chuckled.

"Ah, give the boss a break," she replied. "He's just got trouble dealing with sudden change."

"No surprise, when most of his adult life has been a series of horribly prolonged unpleasantnesses." He said it in a fairly flippant tone, but the accuracy of the offhand statement gave him pause.

Now that he thought about it, practically everything he knew about Lestrade's history fit that description. The slow implosion of his marriage; the long and desperate struggle of the relationship before that, unexpectedly brought to light before his friends; years and years of simmering animosity towards his brother...really, it was little wonder the man kept a stash of antacids on hand at all times, and a well-stocked liquor cupboard. The last year or so had involved more abrupt upheaval than the aging Inspector had likely ever had to handle in such a short period—not all of it bad, of course. But put in this light, a few of the more neurotic aspects of Lestrade's recent behaviour seemed to make more sense to Sherlock.

"Be glad he's not here right now, to hear himself being analysed. Don't think he'd take too kindly to that," Sally pointed out, interrupting his brief fugue of realisation. "Pretty sure he'd call _you_ a prolonged unpleasantness..."

Sherlock shrugged and interlocked his fingers behind his head.

 

.

 

After another minute's silent work, Sally blew a stream of air upwards across her face to flip away an errant curl. "Pass over that stack next to you, would you?"

"What _is_ all this, anyway?" Sherlock asked, tipping himself upright in the chair again and reaching out for the papers she'd indicated. "Physical case records are kept elsewhere; do you keep duplicates, even after they're entered into the computerised records? That would be inefficient."

"All these years, and _now_ you take an interest?"

"Give me some credit, Sally. Normally I have _important_ things to give my attention to."

"Hmph. Well, there's all sorts of things we need to keep track of, against possibility of future audit." She sat back on her heels to stretch as she explained. "Shift logs, personal expenses, phone messages, procedural memos...Every team is responsible for their own record-keeping."

He stood to pass the small pile of paperwork down to her. "Tedious."

"No kidding. Now you see why the boss gets _me_ to do it. 'Course, I don't much like it either; usually, I dump it all in a catchall drawer in my desk, to sort out later. Hence..."

"So which bit are you doing now?" Sherlock wasn't _interested_ , exactly; he asked more for the comfortable rhythm of their banter than anything else. He was in a rare social mood. It was probably something to do with the approaching holiday and its attendant rush of strong memories.

"Junk mail," Sally answered.

" _Junk_ mail? Solicitations from mobile phone providers, and flyers for charity schemes? You have to _save_ that pointless twaddle?"

"Nah, most of that gets culled down in the post room. This is weirdo mail, stuff that comes in addressed to DI Lestrade specifically. Or to Ronny or me—not as often, though. One time I had some bloke get obsessed with me after I handled him in an interview. He sent me letters for a year and a half, pretending I was his wife and he was travelling abroad while I waited for him." She gave an exaggerated shudder to illustrate her opinion of the memory.

"Ah, so, stalkers and death threats," Sherlock clarified, nodding.

"Not so much as you'd think! A lot of the time, he gets _fan_ mail. 'Oh Inspector Lestrade, thank you so much for arresting the awful man who killed my boy.' Or, 'Dear Inspector, me mum saw you on telly an' thinks you're choice. Please write so I can set her up on a hot date with you.' He bloody hates those!"

Sherlock joined her in a brief laugh over her imitation. He could well imagine Lestrade's mortified expression at reading such a missive. Before Lestrade had had the good fortune to meet Anna, and somehow found the courage to pursue her, he'd always struck Sherlock as the sort who entirely failed to appreciate or understand his own draw.

"We should make sure to get him into a good press conference, after his honeymoon," Sherlock decided. "We'll tell the camera operators to focus a clean shot on his ring finger, so the sex-starved masses of London will know he's out of the running."

"Doubt that'd put a dent in it, but sure—long as you keep _my_ name out of it, once he figures out what you're up to! Anyway, the pen-pals he's had lately have been more harmless crazies than lovelorn pensioners."

"Sounds dull."

"Yeah, none of 'em make any sense. Like...here, this one, from two days ago." She picked a sheet of plain stationery out of the pages she sorted through, and handed it up to him. "Couple like that, the last few weeks."

Sherlock accepted the letter and read it aloud. " 'Lucky I wasn't there.' "

"See? No signatures, three or four words, 'you were listening' or 'I know you know,' that sort of nonsense. Someone's been watching bad films."

He glanced over the page, front and back; seeing nothing further of interest, he returned it to her with a small grunt of agreement. "Not terribly worrisome."

"Nope."

They lapsed into companionable silence again; Sherlock stepped over to the window, clasping his hands behind his back as he peered idly down towards the narrow street behind the building. The rolling clang of the cabinet drawer shoving closed, a minute or two later, nearly obscured the quiet chime of the phone in his coat pocket, but he heard and retrieved it.

**Mrs H and I already have the kitchen spotless for tomorrow, I don't want to ruin it. How about dinner out? -JW**

"Well, that's that for another couple months. Nice to have a quiet day to get it done," sighed Sally behind him as he composed a quick reply.

**That would be fine. Japanese, perhaps? The one you liked so well, in Mayfair? I can be there in about twenty minutes. -SH**

**Mm, sounds perfect. See you soon. -JW**

Sherlock smiled at the immediacy of the reply. "Sorry, but I can't wait around for Lestrade any longer," he said, turning from the window.

Sally had paused in the office doorway, reaching her arms high overhead and gripping the top of the doorframe; as he approached she dropped the stretch and quickly stepped aside to let him pass. Rather than sweep on by, though, Sherlock found himself drawn to pause alongside her, in the space just beyond Lestrade's office door.

"I understand it's short notice, Sally, but if you haven't got plans for tomorrow evening, John and I are hosting a gathering at 221B. Please, consider yourself quite welcome to join us."

She blinked at him, clearly startled by the offer. "Oh. Well. I do, actually—Theo is taking me to meet his family. Sort of a big deal. Thanks for inviting me, though, Sherlock. Really."

He nodded, satisfied with his efforts. "I'd best get going. I wouldn't want to keep John waiting..."

"No, you wouldn't." Her smile was small and sharp, but not unkind. "I'll tell the Inspector you were by."

"All right. It's unimportant; I merely planned on discussing what cocktail components he and Anna might prefer us to have on hand. I'll simply text him later, to confirm my deductions."

"Isn't that sweet. Well, happy Christmas, then."

He smiled thinly at her teasing tone, and straightened his scarf as he turned to go. "Happy Christmas, Sally."

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a thing, and I got sick of holding onto the thing in hopes that I would magically have more of the thing left afterwards. :P  
> So...here's a chapter. On a totally random day, at a totally random time. And I don't have any more yet, but I AM trying. Enjoy?


	16. ANNA: On Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna spends some quality time with new friends, while Greg is away reminiscing with old ones.

  
**16\. ANNA: On Your Side**  
_9 January 2016_

.

 

A fresh set of giggles rose from out of sight, as Anna stood in the kitchen opening the evening's second bottle of wine. Even though she was missing the first part of whatever story Molly was telling, she couldn't help smiling; ever since she'd begun to get to know Sally Donovan, she'd got the distinct sense that making the sergeant laugh was always to be counted as a victory. And hearing her genuinely _giggle_ was a rare victory, indeed.

Wine open, she grabbed the box of crackers off the worktop—the cheese plate had been getting a bit low—and returned to the living room in time to hear Molly finish.

"...And so, Martha snuck up behind his chair with the antlers, and she got them on his head before he knew what was happening! Oh, it was brilliant! I forgot to ask Greg, after, if he managed to get a photo. He had his phone out, at the time."

Grinning, Anna chimed in, "I think he did! When he gets home, I'll have to ask him whether he actually managed to save it. I'm pretty sure Sherlock spent a large chunk of the party, after that, just trying to get his hands on that phone and delete the evidence..."

Molly snickered and said, "So _that's_ why the two of them kept moving about so much! I thought they were playing tag!"

"Wow! Now I'm wishing I _had_ asked Theo about stopping in," said Sally, shaking her head in amazement. "Not that it wasn't a fine evening with his folks. It really was."

"Getting serious, huh?" Anna asked; she exchanged a twinkling glance with Molly as she provided her with a refill.

"It's contagious, I think," Sally mused in response, nodding approvingly to her own glass as Anna moved to pour for her. "All you lot, all paired up—I'm running _really_ short on single friends."

A tiny spark of warmth flared somewhere in Anna's chest; yes, she'd asked both Molly and Sally to be her bridesmaids, and she knew them to be friends. But her decision to include them in the wedding had been more for Greg's benefit, really—asking any but her very nearest and dearest to travel overseas had seemed unworkable, and it would have been unfair to ask her fiancé to leave his own close friends out for the sake of an even representation. He'd already narrowed the field to three; that was few enough.

Still, hearing Sally's obvious implication made Anna a little more confident she'd made the right choice.

While Anna sat smiling at that comment, Sally leaned back on the sofa and continued, "I dunno. Meeting the family's not necessarily so serious, is it? I don't think either of us are the type to tie ourselves down, not long-term. I mean, it's nice while it lasts, but I haven't got _expectations_."

"As long as you're happy," Molly declared firmly, and extended her glass to make it a toast. "That's all any of us can ask."

 

.

 

From there, the evening's conversation continued to progress in a fairly haphazard way, which wasn't too surprising. Two out of the three of them were busy professionals, with demanding jobs. Opportunities to socialise outside their respective circles of coworkers were sometimes hard to come by, and the freedom to gossip unchecked brought with it a sort of manic, girlish energy, a friendly euphoria only heightened by the alcohol. They hopped from topic to topic with minimal segue as thoughts occurred: from the television programmes Anna had begun to enjoy, they leapt to the recent amusing antics of Molly's cat. Somehow, that led to a sudden suggestion from Sally that they meet at a karaoke bar for their next ladies' get-together—an idea that shortly sent them all into raucous laughter; the consensus was to put the option on the back burner, at least for the time being.

By the time they got through two-thirds of the second wine bottle, they'd delved into discussing the rooms in which they sat, and future plans for them. This flat was still new to Greg, nearly as much as it was to Anna, and it had a hodgepodge, half-finished feel to it. Many of the furnishings Greg had transplanted from his old flat seemed a bit lonely and small, marooned amongst still-bare walls and open spaces, even though the rooms weren't all that much larger on the whole.

The more open and airy style of decorating was very much in line with Anna's old life, oddly enough, and she'd been perfectly comfortable with it then; her home in Columbus with David had boasted high, skylit ceilings and great expanses of clean beige carpeting. But since then, she'd spent months in the cozy mess of the little Chicago house. Surrounded so closely with her own things and the things her old friend Andy had left, and later Liz's belongings as well, she'd become happily accustomed to clutter. It seemed odd to have so much less of it, now.

Greg's eclectic collections of glass items and books had more space, here in the new flat, and he'd done his best to spread them out pleasingly, but he'd been careful not to fully accessorise any of these rooms before Anna moved in. It was time for her to take over, now, and help him make this place into a home that would reflect both of their personalities, together.

Honestly, with all of the other preparations looming ahead, Anna had expected furnishing the flat to be one more stressful chore to bear. But as she itemised her various ideas for the rooms to her new friends, she was surprised at the giddy excitement she was feeling.

"John was telling me about the antique shops he went exploring, the last few weeks," she told them. "One in particular, he said the owner was really helpful; I thought maybe I'd go sometime next week and take a look. It would be great to find something for upstairs, to bring that bedroom together and do something with the wasted space. A pretty vanity table, or maybe a wardrobe..."

"Just be careful to measure anything you end up picking out; it might look great in the shop, but just watch out for logistics," Sally recommended. She leaned forwards to pick up the dwindling wine bottle, refilling her glass, then topping off Anna's at her nod. "My sister Hannah bought me this _amazing_ antique mirror for my birthday, a few months ago. Huge, gilded frame, you know the kind? A real stunner, I love it. But we had a _hell_ of a time getting it into my flat! Almost snapped a cherub’s head clean off. Theo was out of town; just bad timing, I guess, that there were no strong men available to press into service."

Molly grimaced sympathetically. "Oh, well, I'm surprised you couldn't at _least_ get Greg to help you out?"

"Nah, he couldn't could he? It was the beginning of November."

"Ah," Molly said, nodding, as if that settled the matter.

Anna looked back and forth between them, wondering what she was missing. Something wasn't making sense.

But before she could ask, Molly turned to her and shifted the topic abruptly.

"I saw the most _lovely_ centrepiece design today, in the window of the florist I pass on my way to my Mum's. It made me think of you, Anna; it had these beautiful organza ribbons, trailing out all over, in a sort of dusty plum colour. Wasn't that something like what you said you were thinking of?"

"Yes, well, it's on my short list. Of course, a shade like that is tougher to match, so I'm not sure—I mean, I'd hate to pick something out for you ladies and then find out it's impossible to get stuff like coordinating shoes, you know?"

Sally smirked and waved off her concern. "Easy, just have us wear nude shoes," she said. "Or black, or cream, or whatever. Personally I don't care if it's all matchy-matchy—as long as I can wear something flattering!"

Molly hummed a noise of agreement into her glass. "Isn't _that_ the truth! Two years ago, my friend Gina had me in her wedding. I'm not sure, but um, I think that the dresses we had to wear would be considered inhumane by the standards of the Geneva Convention!" A mischievous grin lit up her pixie-like face, and she reached into the pocket of her slouchy cardigan to pull out her phone. "I think I might still have a picture here, actually..."

They groaned together over the photographic evidence of Gina's poor choice, and then Sally began to relate a horror story from one of her own experiences as a bridal attendant. Even though Anna was busily filing things away in the back of her mind, noting her new friends' preferences and what they were comfortable with, she wasn't too preoccupied to notice that she was enjoying herself immensely.

 

.

 

The next morning was a lazy one, for both Anna and Greg. While she'd entertained at home, he'd been out late with two of his longtime colleagues: Albert Underhill had been a sergeant alongside him, years ago, and the two of them had been in the same training class as Stan Cartwright. Cartwright was currently a DI in the Serious and Organised division, and although Anna hadn't met him she'd become acquainted with his two sergeants, Martin Dane and Bev Gartner. She hadn't yet had the opportunity to meet DCI Underhill, either, but she was happy to wait for another time: the celebration of Bert's early retirement was an understandably private occasion.

Enjoying her coffee, and its palliative effect on her very mild hangover, Anna sat perched on one of the stools at the peninsula. It had quickly become one of her favourite spots in the new flat. For one thing, the vantage point offered a truly lovely view of her intended's backside while he worked near the stove, clad in a comfortable jumper and jeans.

"I didn't think to ask," he said, not looking up from the action of his whisk. "French toast is okay, yes?"

"Always, _oui_ ," she joked, leaning onto her elbows, mesmerised by the things his movements were doing to the line of his shoulders and back.

_«Il n'est pas français, tu comprends sûrement,»_ he said, and laughed, glancing back at her saucily over his shoulder.

" _Unnh_. God, baby, you keep that up and you're not even going to have the opportunity to cook it, French or not."

"Keep _what_ up?" he questioned, far too innocently, returning his attention to the bowl.

Anna shook her head fondly and watched him in smiling silence for another minute. Then she spoke up again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Mm? Anything, love," he murmured distractedly, over the sizzle of bread hitting the pan.

"The stories your father told me at New Year's, about all those summer holidays with your grandparents...you're really fully bilingual?"

"Ah, not completely. I'm good at judging context, though; I get by. And I've always had a knack for the intonation, I suppose. Mum used to tell me I sounded just like Pépère Michel when I got going. Put it this way: I can probably take you to Paris for a weekend and _not_ get sneered at for being English."

"An impressive claim," Anna said, chuckling. "So why'd you put on such a bad accent, on those first few dates of ours—you know, when we were quoting Kevin Kline at each other, and all?"

"Well...it wouldn't have done to make you feel badly about yours, now would it?"

She sputtered theatrically into her coffee. "It's not _that_ bad!"

"Oh, no, I've heard worse," he assured her, turning to slide two freshly finished slices onto her waiting plate, and then his expression turned devilish. "At least _once_."

" _Hey_! You'd better bring that smart mouth of yours over here, mister, and convince me to forget that remark..."

"Gladly," he grinned, stepping out of the kitchen and around to put himself fully within her reach. The kiss was as sweet as it was enticing, but he didn't linger long before pulling back, slipping away from her hands at his waist. "Can't let mine burn. And yours is getting cold, love," he chided her in response to her disappointed hum.

She ate slowly, savouring each sweet bite while she watched him finish up. When he turned off the hob and brought his plate to sit on the stool beside her, she still had half a slice left, cutting dainty pieces and sweeping them through her syrup while he happily dug in.

"So, you must have dragged yourself in pretty late last night," she said. "Sorry I didn't wake up to say hello; by the time the girls left it was almost midnight, and all the wine had gone to my head."

Greg swallowed around his big bite and washed it down with a swig of coffee before answering. "Yeah, it was about one thirty, I think. I'm glad you had a nice evening here, though. I would've loved to bring you along with me, but..."

"No, I understood. It wasn't the sort of night for significant others."

He nodded. "It was more about remembering our early days. Y'know, back when we were all young and stupid."

"And single," she guessed, smirking.

"Heh, yeah." He returned a wry smile, but she caught the brief tightness around his eyes, and belatedly recalled that he'd begun his investigative training in the years immediately following his girlfriend Jo's death. She scrambled to find an apology for the slip, but before she could take a breath he'd blithely continued, "At first, anyway. Bert, especially, before he met Elaine—up 'til that point, Stan and I were placing bets on how long it'd take for him to fail out of CID! She really grounded him, got him focused. It was like night and day...we never would have _guessed_ he'd outrank us both, in the end."

"Is he sad to be retiring?"

"Yes and no? It's complicated. I think it'll be good for him, to be out of the Met; he'll be able to give 'Laney the attention she needs, for one thing, and that'll do wonders for him. He's a fine copper, but he doesn't thrive on the stress—"

"Like you."

"—like me," he agreed ruefully. "God, I can't even imagine myself taking promotion to a desk job, let alone retiring!"

She tilted her head, giving her eyebrows a quick bounce: _well, that's obvious._ "You're right where you need to be, as far as I can see," she said aloud.

"I hope so. Or, where I'm needed, at any rate. I just want to be in a position to do the most good, right? If they offered me Detective Chief Inspector, they'd have to give me a hell of a good reason to take it."

"That's my Greg," she said approvingly, standing to take her plate to the sink; the wine glasses and dessert plates from the night before were still waiting there for her attention. "And you've _always_ been in it for good, as far as I hear. Sally told me a story last summer about how Bert had to drag you off a case, because you wouldn't stop to get over your 'flu..."

He rolled his eyes and grumbled around another bite of his breakfast. "Sal _loves_ that story. I hear about it every time she sees me so much as sniffle! She tell you that happened sixteen years ago, five years before _she_ even joined the force?"

Anna nodded, chuckling. "Don't worry, I know you've grown out of refusing to care of yourself." As she ran warm, soapy water into the sink, a thought floated up to the surface of her mind, popping into her awareness as delicately as the bubbles.

_All those stories come from Sally's older sister..._

"You've been to Sally's flat, haven't you?" The question came out casually, a meaningless aside.

"Yeah, a couple times. She came to mine and helped clear out my spare room, last year, and a few weeks later I went and helped her out with a DIY project. We got together for pizza and a Mission Impossible movie marathon, another time; Theo had his brother in town, that was a fun night. Why, did she ask you over? It's not hard to get to from here..."

She shook her head. "Actually, I was just wondering if you'd gotten to see the giant gilded mirror she got for her last birthday. She was trying to describe it to us, and it sounded pretty awesome."

"Oh? No, can't say as I have," he replied, scraping up a last smear of syrup and licking his fork clean before passing his dishes across to her. "How big is 'giant', then?"

"Big enough that she and Hannah should really have had help getting it inside." She held a soapy glass up to the light, twirling it between her fingers and squinting to check that she'd gotten the last of the dried wine. "They nearly broke one of the carvings, doing it by themselves. I told her she should have at least called _you_..."

She rinsed and set the last glass carefully aside in the drying rack; when she turned back, Greg had disappeared. His voice came from out of sight in the living room, light and casual. "Yeah, maybe so. I don't remember her mentioning it. Hey—did you maybe want to go furniture shopping, today? If we can leave soon, we should have plenty of time before I have to work tonight."

"Oh! That'd actually be great, I was hoping we'd have the chance to do that soon. Where did we put those measurements we took a few weeks ago, did you keep them?"

"Thought you stuck the paper in your notebook, with the sketches? Maybe I left it over here, though, I'll look..."

Fifteen minutes later, they were on the Tube. They sat with heads tilted close together, happily holding hands, all but oblivious to the other passengers while Anna flipped through potential sofa photos on her phone and Greg quietly offered fond critique.

The subject of Sally's mirror was entirely forgotten.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _«It isn't French, surely you know that.»_
> 
> \------
> 
> Slow and steady...something, something. ;)  
> I haven't given up yet! Thanks for being patient.  
> <3 M.


End file.
